9    ~ 


MERMAID 


Out  of  the  ocean  you  came,'  he  said     .     .     .     '  Mermaid/ 
The  name  is  poetry  and  the  story  is  romance '  " 


MERMAID 


BY 
GRANT  M.  OVERTON 


Frontispiece  by  Henry  A.  Botkin 


GARDEN  CITY  NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

1920 


COPYRIGHT,  I92O,  BY 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED,  INCLUDING  THAT  OF 

TRANSLATION  INTO  FOREIGN  LANGUAGES, 

INCLUDING  THE  SCANDINAVIAN 


FOR 
GENE  STRATTON-PORTER 


2137542 


MERMAID 


MERMAID 

PART  ONE 

I 

NO  ONE,"  snapped  Keturah  Smiley,  "can  play 
Providence  to  a  married  couple." 
"Some  women  can  play  Lucifer,"  retorted  her 
brother.     His  hoarse  but  not  unmusical  voice  shook 
with  anger. 

"I  had  nothing  to  do  with  your  wife's  running  away," 
Keturah  Smiley  answered.  "What  is  this  child  you 
have  adopted?" 

"I  have  adopted  no  child,"  said  Cap'n  John  Smiley 
with  coldness.  "A  child  was  saved  from  the  wreck  of 
the  Mermaid  and  the  men  at  the  station  have  adopted 
her.  The  fancy  struck  them  and — I  certainly  had  no 
objection.  It's — she's — a  girl,  a  little  girl  of  about  six. 
We  don't  know  her  name.  The  men  are  calling  her 
Mermaid  after  the  ship." 

Keturah  Smiley  sniffed.  She  wrapped  the  man's 
coat  she  wore  more  closely  about  her,  and  made  as  if  to 
return  to  her  gardening. 

Her  brother  eyed  her  with  a  wrathful  blue  eye.     He 

3 


4  MERMAID 

never  saw  her  that  they  did  not  quarrel.  He  was 
aware  that,  deep  down,  she  loved  him;  he  was  aware 
that  it  was  this  jealous  love  of  Keturah's  which  had 
caused  her  to  nag  the  young  girl  he  had  married  some 
seven  years  earlier.  Mary  Rogers,  in  Keturah's  eyes, 
was  a  silly,  thoughtless,  flighty  person  quite  unfitted  to 
fill  the  role  of  John  Smiley's  wife  and  the  mother  of 
John  Smiley's  children.  She  must  be  made  to  feel 
this;  Keturah  had  done  her  best  to  make  her  feel  it. 
And  there  could  be  no  question  that  the  young  wife  had 
felt  it.  So  much  so  that,  joined  to  John  Smiley's  long 
absences  on  duty  at  the  Coast  Guard  station  on  the 
beach,  joined  to  her  loneliness,  joined  to  who  knows 
what  secret  doubts  and  anguish,  she  had  disappeared 
one  day  some  months  after  their  child  was  born,  taking 
the  baby  girl  with  her  and  leaving  no  word,  no  note,  no 
token.  And  she  had  never  come  back.  She  had 
never  been  traced.  She  might  be  dead;  the  child 
might  be  dead;  no  one  knew. 

Of  course  this  was  the  crowning  evidence  of  the  un- 
fitness  Keturah  Smiley  had  found  in  her;  but  somehow 
Keturah  Smiley  did  not  make  that  triumphant  point 
before  her  brother.  It  is  possible  that  Keturah 
Smiley  who  wore  a  man's  old  coat,  who  drove  hard 
bargains  at  better  than  six  per  cent.,  whose  tongue 
made  the  Long  Islanders  of  Blue  Port  shrink  as  under 
a  cutting  lash — it  is  possible  that  Keturah  Smiley  was 
just  the  least  bit  afraid  of  her  brother. 


MERMAID  5 

If  so  she  could  hardly  be  said  to  show  it.  There 
was  no  trace  of  the  stricken  conscience  in  the  air 
with  which  she  always  faced  him.  There  was  none 
now. 

"Well,  John,"  she  said,  almost  pleasantly,  as  she  hoed 
her  onion  bed.  "You're  blowing  from  the  southeast 
pretty  strong  to-day  and  you  appear  to  be  bringing 
trouble.  I'll  just  take  three  reefs  in  my  temper  and 
listen  to  what  further  you  have  to  say." 

John  Smiley  was  not  heeding  her.  He  had  found 
that  there  are  times  in  life  when  it  is  necessary  not  to 
listen  if  you  would  keep  sane  and  kind.  He  was  re- 
flecting on  the  difficulty  of  his  errand. 

"Keturah,"  he  asked,  off-handedly,  "this  little  girl 
has  got  to  have  some  clothes.  Do  you  suppose " 

"Perhaps  you  would  like  me  to  adopt  her,"  his  sister 
interrupted.  "No,  I  thank  you,  John.  As  for  clothes, 
I  daresay  that  if  you  and  your  men  are  going  to  bring 
up  a  six-year-old  girl  the  lot  of  you  can  get  clothes  from 
somewhere." 

Do  we  always  torture  the  things  we  love  ?  Love  and 
jealousy,  jealousy  and  torture.  Cap'n  Smiley  saw  red 
for  a  moment;  then  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  strode 
down  the  path  and  out  the  gate. 

He  walked  up  the  long  main  street  until  he  came  to 
the  handful  of  stores  at  the  crossroads.  Entering  one 
of  the  largest  he  went  to  the  counter  where  a  pleasant- 
faced  woman  confronted  him. 


6  MERMAID 

"Oh,  Cap'n  Smiley!"  exclaimed  the  shopwoman. 
"Are  you  all  right?  Are  all  the  men  all  right?  What 
a  terrible  time  you  have  been  a-having!  That  ship- 
she's  pounded  all  to  pieces  they  say." 

The  Coast  Guard  keeper  nodded.  He  began  his  er- 
rand: 

"I've  got  to  get  some  clothes  for  a  little  girl  that  was 
saved — only  one  we  got  ashore  alive  except  one  of  the 
hands.  I  guess  I  need  a  complete  outfit  for  a  six-year- 
old,"  he  explained. 

The  shopwoman,  with  various  exclamations,  bustled 
about.  She  spread  out  on  the  counter  a  variety  of 
garments.  The  keeper  eyed  them  with  some  confusion. 
It  appeared  he  had  to  make  a  selection;  impossible  task! 
"What  would  you  think  was  best?"  he  inquired, 
anxiously.  The  shopwoman  came  to  his  aid  and  a 
bundle  was  made  up.  Two  little  gingham  dresses,  a 
warm  coat;  and  did  he  want  a  nice  dress?  A  dress-up 
dress  ?  The  keeper  had  given  no  thought  to  the  matter. 
A  pity  the  little  girl  wasn't  along!  It  was  hard  to  tell 
what  would  become  her.  She  had  blue  eyes  and  red- 
dish hair?  Something  dark  and  plain,  but  not  too 
dark.  A  plaid;  yes,  a  warm  plaid  would  be  best.  Here 
was  a  nice  pattern. 

"I  s'pose  you'll  be  bringing  her  over  here,"  ventured 
the  shopkeeper.  "Does  any  one  know  who  she 
is?  .  .  .  What  a  pity!  Mermaid!  After  the  ship ! 
I  declare.  I  don't  know's  I  ever  heard  that  for  a  girl's 


MERMAID  7 

name,  though  it's  suitable,  to  be  sure.  I  s'pose  you'll 
look  after  her." 

"The — the  men  have  sort  of  adopted  her,"  Cap'n 
Smiley  said,  hastily.  "We  thought  we  could  look  after 
her  and  it  would  be  rather  nice  having  a  youngster 
around.  Of  course,  it's  unusual,"  he  went  on  in  answer 
to  the  shopwoman's  expression  of  amazement.  He 
thanked  her,  and  taking  his  bundles,  fared  forth. 

The  woman  in  the  shop  sent  after  him  a  curious 
and  softened  look.  She  had  a  habit  of  saying  aloud 
the  things  that  struck  her  most  forcibly.  She  re- 
marked now  to  the  empty  store : 

"Adopt  her!  Well,  there's  those  will  say  a  crew  of 
Coast  Guardsmen  are  no  fit  lot  to  bring  up  a  six-year- 
old  girl.  But  any  child  will  be  safe  with  John  Smiley 
to  look  after  her."  A  new  and  important  thought 
struck  her. 

"Goodness!"  she  ejaculated.  "This  will  be  some- 
thing for  Keturah  to  exercise  her  brain  about!" 

II 

Cap'n  Smiley  went  from  the  shop  directly  to  the 
creek  where  his  boat  lay.  He  stowed  his  bundles  and 
gave  several  energetic  turns  to  the  flywheel;  the  engine 
began  to  chug  loudly,  the  keeper  cast  off  his  line,  and 
taking  the  tiller  started  back  across  the  Great  South 
Bay. 

It  was  a  five-mile  trip  across  to  the  Lone  Cove  Coast 


8  MERMAID 

Guard  Station  and  Keeper  John  had  a  little  time  for 
reflection.  He  had  not  meant  to  quarrel  with  his 
sister;  he  had  gone  with  the  express  determination  not 
to  have  the  usual  row,  but  this  had  proved  impossible. 
No  one  could  avoid  fighting  with  his  sister,  himself 
least  of  all.  If  it  was  not  some  allusion  to  his  wife  it 
was  some  allusion  to  their  aunt's  will  which,  drawn  to 
leave  her  considerable  property  equally  to  John  and 
his  sister,  had  at  the  last  moment  been  altered  to  leave 
all  to  Keturah  because  of  dissatisfaction  with  John's 
marriage.  The  keeper  had  never  cared  about  that 
while  he  had  had  his  wife  and  for  a  few  precious 
months  the  baby  girl;  and  after  he  had  lost  them  it 
would  seem  he  might  have  cared  less  than  ever.  What 
was  money  then?  Never-ceasing  pain  still  gnawed 
at  his  heart,  but  for  that  very  reason  the  gibes  of  his 
sister  became  the  more  unendurable.  Was  it  not  she 
who  was  in  great  measure  responsible  for  the  loss  of 
Mary  and  the  little  Mary?  Cap'n  Smiley  was  a  clear- 
minded  man;  he  did  not  absolve  his  wife  from  blame, 
but  she  had  been,  after  all,  but  a  young  girl  and 
despite  her  lightmindedness  he  had  loved  her.  With 
all  her  little  affectations,  with  all  her  craving  for  amuse- 
ment, with  all  her  utter  inefficiency  as  a  housekeeper, 
with  all  her  childishness  akin  to  that  of  the  childlike 
Dora  whom  David  Copperfield  cherished — with  all  and 
in  spite  of  all  John  Smiley  had  loved  this  young  girl. 
And  he  could  not  but  believe  that  his  sister  was  as 


MERMAID  9 

much  to  blame  for  her  behaviour  in  leaving  him  as 
Mary's  own  weak  nature. 

And  then  the  baby  girl!  How  deep  the  wound  of 
losing  her  John  Smiley  would  never  let  the  world  know. 
Her  name,  too,  had  been  Mary. 

He  thought  of  the  mute  little  figure  awaiting  him  and 
his  bundles  on  the  beach.  She  was  just  the  age,  as 
nearly  as  could  be  surmised,  that  his  own  child  would 
have  been  if  ...  if.  ... 

What  was  that  his  sister  had  said  in  regard  to  his 
own  experience?  "No  one  can  play  Providence  to  a 
married  couple."  Well,  a  pretty  thing  for  her  to  say! 
She  had  certainly  played  a  role  anything  but  providen- 
tial in  her  brother's  marriage.  But  if  no  one  could 
play  Providence  to  married  folk  it  might  still  be 
possible  for  someone  to  be  a  Providence  to  a  single 
soul. 

This  little  girl,  he  thought  with  a  thrill,  this  little 
girl  of  the  age  his  own  would  have  been,  with  her  blue 
eyes  and  her  reddish  hair,  coppery,  almost  burnished — 
she  could  play  Providence  in  his  life,  perhaps. 

He  remembered  how,  the  night  of  the  wreck,  he  had 
put  her  to  bed  in  his  own  bed  and  had  slept  in  some 
blankets  on  the  floor.  In  the  middle  of  the  night  he 
had  been  wakened  by  her  crying.  Some  memory  in 
her  sleep  had  made  her  sob.  Very  weak,  pitiful  sobs. 
They  had  stirred  him  to  try  to  comfort  her  and  after 
a  little  she  had  returned  to  sleep. 


io  MERMAID 

III 

There  was  in  the  crew  of  the  Lone  Cove  Coast 
Guard  Station  a  man  named  Hosea  Hand  and 
called  Ho  Ha,  partly  because  these  were  the  first 
letters  of  his  first  and  last  names,  partly  because  of 
the  presence  among  the  crew  of  another  man  called 
Ha  Ha.  Ha  Ha's  name  was  Harvey  Hawley  and  he 
was  a  silent,  sorrowful,  drooping  figure.  He  resembled 
a  gloomy  question  mark  and  not  a  joyful  exclamation 
point.  Ho  Ha,  however,  was  merry;  Ho  Ha  was 
blithe  and  gay.  Ha  Ha,  in  the  week  of  the  six-year-old 
child's  existence  at  Lone  Cove,  had  hardly  done  more 
than  eye  her  with  misgiving.  But  Ho  Ha  had  picked 
her  up  a  dozen  times  a  day  for  little  journeys  down  to 
the  surf,  back  to  the  station,  over  to  the  bay,  and  up  on 
the  dunes.  He  had  her  now,  pick-a-back,  at  the  end  of 
the  little  pier  that  stuck  out  into  the  bay  shallows. 
The  chugging  of  the  keeper's  launch  grew  louder  every 
minute. 

"Wave  to  the  Cap'n,"  Ho  Ha  urged  her.  Mermaid 
answered  his  smile  with  a  smile  of  her  own.  The  after- 
noon sun  struck  her  coppery  hair  and  framed  the  smile 
in  a  halo. 

Of  a  sudden  the  chug-chugging  stopped,  the  launch 
came  about  neatly,  and  Ho  Ha,  hastily  setting  Mermaid 
down  on  the  pier,  caught  the  rope  end  Cap'n  Smiley 
tossed  him.  Then  he  laid  hold  of  the  keeper's  bundles 


MERMAID  it 

while  John  Smiley  picked  up  the  little  girl  and  carried 
her  to  the  station. 

Spring  had  not  conquered  the  chill  of  nightfall  yet. 
The  big  stove  in  the  long  living  room  of  the  station  gave 
forth  a  happy  warmth,  and  the  front  lids  were  red.  In 
the  kitchen,  through  which  arrivals  passed  into  the  liv- 
ing room,  Warren  Avery,  Surfman  No.  4,  was  working, 
apron-clad,  at  the  task  of  dinner.  It  was  his  week  to 
cook  and  he  thanked  God  the  agony  would  soon  be  over. 
Cake!  He  had  never  been  able  to  make  cake  with  con- 
fidence since  the  day  when  he  had  put  in  salt  instead  of 
saleratus.  The  cake  had  not  risen  but  his  fellows  had. 

"What  you  trying  to  do,  Avery?"  Ha  Ha  had  de- 
manded. "This  might  have  been  made  by  Lot's 
wife." 

In  the  living  room  sat  the  other  members  of  the  crew, 
all  except  Tom  Lupton  who  was  forth  on  the  east  patrol. 
All  smoked  pipes  except  the  youngest,  Joe  Sayre,  Surf- 
man No.  7.  Joe  was  eighteen  and  Cap'n  Smiley  suf- 
fered great  anxiety  lest  cigarettes  impair  the  physique 
inherited  from  generations  of  bay-going  ancestors. 

All  smoked;  at  the  word  that  dinner  was  ready  all 
would  cease  to  smoke  and  begin  to  eat.  At  the  con- 
clusion of  dinner  they  would  light  up  again.  All  were 
hungry,  all  were  hardy.  Seven  nights  before,  drenched 
to  the  skin,  blinded  by  rain  and  hail  and  braced  against 
a  full  gale,  they  had  battled  all  night  to  save  men  from  a 
ship  smashing  to  pieces  on  the  outer  bar.  Not  one  of 


12  MERMAID 

them  showed  a  sign  of  that  prolonged  and  terrible 
struggle. 

Cap'n  Smiley  drew  up  his  chair  at  one  end  of  the 
table,  which  thus  became  the  head.  Mermaid  was  seated 
beside  him.  For  her  there  was  mush  and  milk,  the 
latter  supplied  by  the  only  cow  on  the  beach,  which  be- 
longed to  Mrs.  Biggies.  For  the  others  huskier  fare: 
corned  beef  and  cabbage,  hardtack  and  butter,  bread 
pudding  and  coffee.  Each  waited  on  himself  and  on 
the  others.  There  must  be  conversation;  Cap'n  Smiley 
valued  certain  amenities  as  evidence  of  man's  civilized 
state  and  table  conversation  was  one  of  them.  It  de- 
volved on  him  to  start  it.  He  said : 

"Has  the  beach  been  gone  over  to-day  for  wreckage?" 

It  appeared  it  had.  Jim  Mapes  and  Joe  Sayre,  aided 
somewhat  by  Mrs.  Biggles's  husband,  had  walked  east 
and  west  almost  to  the  stations  on  either  side  of  Lone 
Cove.  There  was  much  driftwood  from  the  lost  ship. 
Some  tinned  provisions  had  come  ashore  but  seemed 
hopelessly  spoiled.  And  one  body. 

"  Found  it  well  up  on  the  beach  about  two  miles  east," 
Jim  Mapes  told  the  keeper.  "That  of  the  captain. 
Biggies  took  it  over  to  Bellogue.  I  kept  the  papers  he 
had  on  him.  Put  'em  on  your  desk,  Cap'n." 

"Look  'em  over  later,"  the  keeper  remarked.  "Did 
Biggies  take  off  that  fo'c's'le  scum  ?" 

"He  did." 

"And  a  good  riddance,"  declared  the  keeper.     "Evil- 


MERMAID  13 

looking  fellow,  if  I  ever  saw  one.  A  squarehead,  too. 
Some  Dutch  name  or  other — Dirk  or  Derrick  or  just 
plain  Dirt.  The  owners  said  to  let  him  go.  But  the 
curious  thing  is  they  couldn't  tell  me  what  I  wanted  to 
know." 

He  glanced  at  the  small  girl  beside  him.  She  had 
finished  her  supper  and  sat  back  in  her  chair,  looking  a 
little  timidly  and  a  little  sleepily  at  the  men.  Cap'n 
Smiley  interrupted  his  meal  to  carry  her  to  his  room 
whence,  after  an  interval,  he  returned  grinning  happily. 

"Eyes  closed  as  soon  as  she  was  in  bed,"  he  informed 
his  crew.  Then  his  forehead  wrinkled  again  as  he  sat 
down. 

"The  owners,"  he  explained,  "say  that  the  captain 
was  unmarried.  The  mate  had  a  wife  but  no  children. 
The  second  was  a  youngster  and  single.  There  was  no 
passenger,  not  even  one  signed  on  as  'medical  officer'  or 
anything  like  that.  The  ship  was  direct  from  San 
Francisco,  130  days  out.  The  child  must  have  come 
aboard  before  she  sailed,  but  there  is  no  record  to  show 
who  she  is.  Have  any  of  you  talked  to  her  ? " 

"I  have,"  Ho  Ha  answered.  "Easy-like,  you  know, 
Cap'n.  She  says  she  hasn't  any  name.  The  captain 
looked  after  her  and  she  lived  in  a  spare  cabin.  The 
steward  she  remembers  because  he  was  kind  to  her  and 
because  he  was  lame.  She  had  never  seen  any  one 
aboard  before  she  came  on  the  ship.  Doesn't  know  how 
she  got  there.  Woke  up  to  find  herself  in  the  cabin  and 


I4  MERMAID 

the  'bed  rocking.'  Before  being  on  the  boat  she  lived 
with  *  a  tall  lady '  whom  she  called  Auntie.  Just  Auntie, 
nothing  else.  It  was  in  the  country,  some  place  near 
Frisco,  maybe.  Qn  shipboard  the  captain  and  the 
steward  called  her  *  little  girl'  when  they  called  her  any- 
thing. None  of  the  others  spoke  to  her." 

Most  of  the  men  had  finished  eating.  Cap'n  Smiley 
got  up  and  went  to  his  desk.  He  picked  up  the  papers 
that  had  been  washed  ashore  with  the  body  of  the 
Mermaid's  skipper.  There  were  certain  of  the  ship's 
papers,  a  little  memorandum  book  with  no  entries,  and  a 
personal  letter.  The  ink  had  run  badly  on  the  soaked 
documents  and  the  letter  was  illegible  except  for  a  few 
words.  These  were  far  apart  and  decipherable  after 
much  pains. 

"'Only  child  .  .  .  return  her  .  .  .  pre- 
cautions ...  do  not  want  my  whereabouts  .  .  . 
so  no  message  .  .  .  forgiveness'"  puzzled  out  the 
keeper.  From  hand  to  hand  the  letter  went  to  confirm 
these  conjectural  readings.  The  keeper  scratched 
his  head.  His  forehead  showed  little  vertical  lines. 
His  blue  eyes  were  thoughtful,  and  the  wrinkles  that 
converged  at  their  corners,  the  result  of  much  sea  gazing, 
showed  up  like  little  furrows  of  light  and  shadow  under 
the  rays  of  the  big  oil  lamp  hanging  overhead.  The 
sense  of  so  much  as  he  had  read  was  clear  enough,  but 
the  story  was  woefully  incomplete.  What  were  a  few 
words  in  a  couple  of  sentences  of  a  long  letter?  Four 


MERMAID  15 

large  sheets  had  been  covered  by  that  shaky  and  rather 
small  handwriting;  and  for  the  fourteen  words  he  could 
make  out  there  were  at  least  four  hundred  lost. 

Footfalls  sounded  on  the  boardwalk  outside  the  door, 
not  the  steady  tramp  of  Tom  Lupton  returning  from  the 
easterly  stretch  of  the  beach  but  lighter  steps  of  some- 
one running.  The  door  opened  quickly  and  Mrs. 
Biggies  appeared  among  them,  white  and  breathless. 

"Cap'n,"  she  panted.  "There's  a  stranger  on  the 
beach.  My  Henry  hasn't  got  back  yet — he  maybe'll 
be  staying  over  to  Bellogue  till  morning.  I  heard  a 
noise  at  a  window  and  there  was  a  man's  face.  He  dis- 
appeared quick.  I  was  so  frightened  I  couldn't  run  and 
I  couldn't  stay;  so  finally  I  run  over  here.  Twasn't 
any  face  I  ever  saw  before.  It's — it's  a  sailor  like  the 
one  Henry  took  off.  And — oh,  have  mercy  on  us!— 
they're  all  drowned!" 

IV 

Cap'n  Smiley,  young  Joe  Sayre,  and  Jim  Mapes  went 
back  with  Mrs.  Biggies.  It  was  a  clear  night  with  many 
stars  but  the  moon  had  not  yet  risen.  The  fresh,  damp 
southeast  wind  was  playing  great  chords  upon  the  organ 
of  the  surf.  Eight  minutes'  tramping  over  the  dunes 
brought  the  four  persons  to  the  Biggies  house — a  fisher- 
man's shack  of  two  rooms,  but  tight  and  dry.  The 
lamp's  glow  came  through  window  panes.  After 
circling  the  house  Cap'n  Smiley  moved  to  one  of  the 


16  MERMAID 

windows.  He  came  back  immediately  and  said  to  the 
others  with  a  low  chuckle: 

"Whoever  he  is,  he's  hungry.  Mrs.  Biggies,  he's 
eating  your  provender!" 

All  fear  left  the  Dayman's  wife.  With  an  exclamation 
she  advanced  before  the  others  could  restrain  her.  They 
followed  her  through  the  door  in  time  to  hear  her  ex- 
claim: 

"You  good-for-nothing,  what  are  you  doing  eating  my 
Henry's  cold  samp  porridge!" 

The  man  choked  on  a  mouthful.  Swiftly  he  rose 
and  tried  to  slip  by  her.  She  gave  him  a  heavy  box 
on  the  head  and  the  men  at  the  door  caught  and  held 
him. 

"Who  are  you?  What  are  you  doing  here?"  asked 
Cap'n  Smiley,  sharply,  though  amazed  mirth  at  the 
transformation  of  Mrs.  Biggies  caused  his  eyes  to 
twinkle.  The  sailor  stood  quietly  enough.  His  Eng- 
lish was  poor.  He  was,  he  said,  one  of  the  crew  of  the 
wrecked  ship.  He  had  been  washed  ashore  unconscious 
on  the  night  of  the  disaster  but  had  recovered  his  senses 
before  dawn,  creeping  into  the  sandhills.  There  he  had 
hidden  in  bushes  and  slept.  He  had  slept  all  day  and  at 
night  he  had  prowled  about.  Breaking  into  one  of  the 
few  summer  cottages  on  the  beach  he  had  found  a  little 
food  and  on  that  he  had  subsisted.  He  hadn't  ap- 
proached the  Coast  Guard  Station  nor  made  himself 
known  to  any  one  because  of  a  fight  in  San  Francisco  in 


MERMAID  17 

which  he  had  killed  a  man.  A  boarding-house  keeper 
had  sheltered  him  and  put  him  on  the  Mermaid,  but  the 
captain  knew  who  he  was  and  he  had  expected  to  be 
arrested  when  the  ship  made  New  York.  The  wreck 
had  seemed  to  offer  him  a  miraculous  chance  of  escape,, 
and  he  had  somehow  escaped  with  his  life.  Was  he  tx> 
survive  in  the  face  of  such  odds  only  to  lose  his  life 
ashore?  But  now,  half-starved  and  plainly  feverish,  he 
could  struggle  no  longer;  he  would  confess  and  take  his 
chances.  His  eye  remained  with  a  fixed  fascination  on 
the  food  that  lay  on  the  table.  He  wriggled  feebly  in 
Cap'n  Smiley 's  hard  grasp  to  reach  it;  then  sank  down 
limply  with  delirious  mutterings. 

The  keeper  and  Joe  Sayre  picked  him  up  and  carried 
him,  as  men  on  shipboard  carry  a  lighter  sail,  to  the  sta- 
tion. Mrs.  Biggies,  entirely  reassured,  they  left  in  her 
cabin.  At  the  station  a  bed  was  made  on  the  floor  in  the 
living  room,  not  far  from  the  stove.  The  keeper  got  out 
his  medicine  chest  and  prepared  to  spend  a  wakeful  night. 

The  man  was  evidently  in  a  very  bad  state.  Sedatives 
seemed  to  have  no  effect  on  him.  He  tossed  about  on 
the  floor  as  if  he  felt  a  heaving  deck  under  him.  He 
talked  almost  continuously.  His  exchanges  with  the 
boarding-house  keeper  and  with  the  skipper  of  the 
Mermaid  were  on  his  lips;  and  interspersed  with  cringing 
entreaties  were  sentences  that  must  have  been  uttered 
in  a  quarrel  with  the  man  he  had  killed.  Cap'n  Smiley 
listened  patiently,  but  he  could  not  make  much  of  it. 


i8  MERMAID 

The  man  killed  in  the  fight  had  not  been  a  sailor  but 
a  landsman,  that  was  evident,  and  he  had  had  something 
to  do  with  a  woman — no,  a  girl.  Then  came  the  words, 
"Six  years  old,"  and  the  keeper  suddenly  realized  that 
all  this  might  relate  to  the  child  sleeping  in  his  bed.  He 
bent  down  and  waited  for  her  name,  but  it  never  came. 
Most  likely  the  speaker  did  not  know  it.  There  was 
something  about  a  "Captain  King,"  but  the  name  of  the 
Mermaid's  captain  had  been  Jackson.  .  .  .  This 
Captain  King  had  had  something  to  do  with  the  six- 
year-old  girl.  .  .  .  She  was  not  his  child  but 
another's.  .  .  .  He  had  arranged  to  send  her 
back  .  .  .  keeping  himself  out  of  it.  ... 
Child  .  .  .  Cap'n  Smiley's  thoughts  travelled  to 
the  letter  found  with  the  body  of  the  Mermaid's  skipper. 
It  must  have  been  from  this  Captain  King.  But  to 
whom  was  he  returning  this  child  who  was  not  his  ?  And 
who  were  her  parents  ?  All  this  sick  man  knew  he  had 
learned  from  an  agent  of  Captain  King  who  had 
brought  the  child  to  the  master  of  the  Mermaid,  and  who 
had  been  drinking  with  the  money  someone,  presumably 
King,  had  paid  him.  .  .  .  The  keeper,  with  a  beat- 
ing heart,  gave  heed  to  the  sailor's  talking.  Much  of  it 
was  irrelevant  and  not  a  little  was  unclean;  once  the  man 
sang  part  of  a  chantey,  and  once  he  cursed  a  fellow  work- 
ing beside  him  aloft  on  a  yard.  It  was  a  long  and 
strained  vigil  that  the  Coast  Guardsman  kept,  and  when, 
toward  morning,  the  poor  wretch  on  the  floor  sank  into 


MERMAID  19 

a  coma  and  died,  he  had  an  intolerable  sense  of  being 
cheated,  first  by  a  dead  man  who  should  have  kept  his 
papers  in  oilskin  packets,  and  then  by  a  dying  man 
whose  tongue  should  either  have  wagged  a  few  hours 
longer  or  never  have  wagged  at  all. 


Spring  advanced.  The  velvety  grass  of  the  salt  mead- 
ows became  a  delightful  green.  Mermaid  of  the  Lone 
Cove  Station  played  all  day  among  the  dunes  and  down 
by  the  surf,  and  the  men,  particularly  Ho  Ha,  played 
with  her.  She  had  a  part  in  their  daily  drills  and  exer- 
cises. When  they  wigwagged  with  red  and  white  flags 
she  wigwagged  with  a  small  red  and  white  flag,  too. 
When  the  little  brass  cannon  was  fired  and  Jim  Mapes, 
standing  on  a  platform  that  encircled  a  high  pole — a 
platform  that  represented  the  maintop  as  the  pole  rep- 
resented a  ship's  mainmast — caught  the  heaving  line  and 
made  it  fast  Mermaid,  her  hair  glinting  in  the  sunlight, 
stood  beside  him.  The  line  rigged,  Mermaid  made  the 
round  trip  to  the  dunes  and  back,  and  then  a  last  trip  to 
the  dunes  in  the  breeches  buoy.  Her  two  small  legs  pro- 
truded ridiculously,  and  the  tip  of  her  head  was  hidden  in 
the  big  circle  of  the  buoy's  belt.  On  other  days  there  was 
drill  with  the  surf  boat,  but  on  these  occasions  Mermaid 
could  only  stand  on  the  beach  and  jump  up  and  down 
with  excitement  while  her  uncles  (as  she  was  taught  to 


so  MERMAID 

call  them)  waded  warily  out  in  big  hip  boots,  watched 
for  the  right  moment,  and  pushed  beyond  the  breakers. 
Cap'n  Smiley,  who  was  always  helping  the  little  girl 
to  invent  games,  had  suggested  to  her  that  she  play 
she  was  on  a  desert  island.  He  had  explained  to  her 
what  a  desert  island  was,  and  had  made  her  acquainted, 
verbally,  with  one  Robinson  Crusoe. 

She,  Mermaid,  was  a  desert  islander  and  the  surf- 
boat,  returning,  was  a  boat  come  to  take  her  off.  She 
had  been  alone,  utterly  alone,  on  the  desert  island  for 
years.  At  the  sight  of  the  boat  coming  through  the 
surf  emotion  should  be  hers.  It  was,  and  would  have 
been  anyway;  but  it  might  never  have  been  the  imagi- 
native and  kindled  thing  it  became  with  the  keeper's 
help.  Standing  at  the  tiller  he  would  call  out,  as  the 
boat  turned  shoreward: 

"Courage!  You  shall  be  restored  to  your  family 
and  friends!" 

And  when  the  boat  was  beached  he  would  advance 
to  the  child,  bow  respectfully  before  her,  and  even 
sometimes,  kneeling,  kiss  her  hand.  He  would  say: 

"Your  gracious  Majesty,  we  have  voyaged  to  the 
Indies  and  have  taken  possession  of  them  in  the  name 
of  Castile!" 

Or: 

"Welcome,  my  lady,  back  to  the  world  of  living  men ! " 

Or,  merely  bowing,  and  with  a  deference  as  studied 
as  Stanley's  in  the  African  jungle: 


MERMAID  21 

"Madame  Mermaid,  I  believe!" 

Mermaid  received  him  without  full  comprehension 
but  with  high  glee.  With  a  deplorable  lack  of  etiquette 
she  invariably  reached  up  both  arms,  put  them  around 
his  lowered  neck,  and  kissed  him. 

She  was  pretty  with  the  promise  of  loveliness,  per- 
haps of  beauty.  It  was  not  only  her  hair  and  her  eyes 
but  the  modelling  of  her  chin  and  the  spacing  of  her 
features.  The  skin  was  unusually  clear,  with  colour 
in  the  cheeks,  and  a  few  faint,  clustered  freckles. 

The  men  were  devoted  to  her  and  she  returned  their 
affection.  Even  Ha  Ha,  the  sad  soul,  the  introspective 
one,  though  he  never  smiled,  was  less  gloomy  in  his 
opinions  when  Mermaid  stood  by.  Ho  Ha,  unable  to 
compete  with  the  keeper  in  telling  engrossing  stories, 
set  himself  to  work  to  provide  pets.  There  were  foxes 
on  the  beach  and  he  had  come  upon  a  litter.  The  cubs 
were  dedicated  to  Mermaid — until  nightfall  when  their 
mother  gnawed  the  ropes  which  fastened  them.  Ho 
Ha  sought  vainly  in  Bellogue  and  Blue  Port  for  a  white 
rabbit  with  pink  eyes.  The  beach  was  infested  with 
plain  brown  rabbits,  for  the  most  part  rather  unafraid 
of  man.  Mermaid  could  approach  within  a  few  feet  of 
these  but  they  would  not  stay  to  let  her  touch  them. 
Occasionally,  trotting  along  the  ocean  shore  beside  Ho 
Ha,  Mermaid  came  upon  the  round-toed  tracks  of  a 
cat.  Then  the  coast  guardsman  would  explain  how 
some  of  the  summer  people  had  left  their  cats  en  the 


22  MERMAID 

beach  in  the  fall  to  fend  for  themselves.  Cats  so 
abandoned,  explained  Ho  Ha,  quickly  became  wild; 
they  doubtless  caught  birds  and  visited  the  water's 
edge  in  the  reasonable  hope  of  finding  a  bit  of  fish  for 
supper.  They  were  as  wild  as  the  foxes  and  much 
more  savage;  if  Mermaid  should  see  one  she  must  not 
make  advances  lest  she  be  set  upon  and  clawed.  The 
sinuous  line  in  the  sand  was  the  trail  of  a  snake,  prob- 
ably a  harmless  garter  snake,  but  possibly  a  black 
snake.  Mermaid  shuddered  and  her  little  hand  closed 
more  firmly  over  Ho  Ha's  fingers. 

While  her  natural  education  was  thus  proceeding 
Cap'n  Smiley  gave  much  thought  to  the  question  of 
her  schooling.  Soon  she  would  be  seven,  if,  indeed, 
she  were  not  already.  Since  the  lack  of  a  birthday 
is  troublesome  he  bestowed  his  own  upon  her  and 
promised  some  sort  of  a  birthday  party  come  May 
27th. 

But  before  this  celebration  ripened  the  agreeable 
course  of  life  on  the  beach  suffered  an  intrusion.  On  a 
fine  May  day  Cap'n  Smiley  was  puzzled  to  see  ad- 
vancing along  the  beach  and  turning  in  toward  his 
station  a  group  of  women  whom  he  recognized,  as  they 
neared,  to  be  from  Blue  Port.  Hastily  assuring  him- 
self that  his  sister  was  not  one,  he  arrested  the  drill 
with  the  breeches  buoy  and  stepped  forward  to  meet 
them.  There  were  Mrs.  Horton,  Mrs.  Brand,  Mrs. 
Dayton,  and  Miss  Errily.  The  four  came  up  slowly, 


MERMAID  23 

talking  among  themselves  with  earnestness.  When 
they  were  within  earshot  they  stopped  and  Miss  Errily 
seemed  to  take  the  lead,  her  thin  lips  closed  in  a 
straight  line. 

"Good  morning,"  said  Cap'n  Smiley,  pleasantly 
"We're  about  finished  with  the  drill,  but  there's  time 
enough  to  see  it  done  over  if " 

Miss  Errily  interrupted  him: 

"We  didn't  come  to  see  the  drill,  Cap'n  Smiley,"  she 
said  in  the  severe  tone  natural  to  her.  "We  came  to 
protest,  on  behalf  of  good  people,  against  your  allowing 
that  child  with  the  improper  name  to  stay  here.  No 
one  knows  anything  about  her  and  I  dare  say  the  name 
you've  given  her  is  no  worse  than  the  rest  if  it  were 
known;  but  a  crew  of  rough  men  is  not  a  fit  surrounding 
in  which  any  child  should  be  brought  up." 

For  an  ex-schoolteacher  Miss  Errily 's  sentence  con- 
struction was  not  flattering,  but  it  was  not  the  con- 
struction which  bothered  the  keeper.  The  pleasant 
expression  left  his  face. 

"I  don't  like  insinuations,  Miss  Errily.  Say  what 
you  have  to  say  right  out." 

Miss  Errily  compressed  her  lips  more  tightly  before 
reopening  them. 

"Everyone  knows,  Cap'n  Smiley,  that  this  girl  is  a 
nobody-knows-who." 

"Go  on,"  the  keeper  t*ld  her. 

"Doubtless,"  pursued  Miss  Errily,  "she  is  a — no,  I 


24  MERMAID 

cannot  bring  myself  to  say  it,  and  it  is  unnecessary — an 
Improper  Child"  (Miss  Errily's  tone  capitalized  the 
words)  "With  Improper  Origins  and  Antecedents. 
Her  proper  place  is  an  Institution.  Naturally,  the 
Children's  Home  connected  with  the  county  house  and 
poor  farm.  They  train  them  very  well  for  domestic 
service,  and  good  servants  are  becoming  scarce.  Few 
nowadays  can  keep  their  place  and  so,  few  keep  their 
places.  Besides,  it  is  a  Scandal — I  speak  frankly — an 
Open  Scandal  for  a  child  of  her  years  to  be  living  here 
with  rough  men  who  cannot  look  after  her  properly  nor 
discipline  her.  School,  church,  and  home;  she  goes 
without  all  three." 

Cap'n  Smiley's  blue  eyes  flashed  as  the  blue  ocean 
at  which  he  had  been  gazing  flashed  when  the  sun 
caught  the  waves.  Now  he  turned  and  faced  the 
women,  but  Ho  Ha,  who  had  been  listening  with 
clenched  fists,  was  before  him.  At  the  beginning  of 
Miss  Errily's  remarks  Ho  Ha  had  whispered  in  Mer- 
maid's ear  and  the  child  had  scampered  toward  the 
station,  not  unpleased,  for  she  did  not  like  the  looks  the 
visitors  gave  her. 

"Wait  a  minute,  Miss  Errily,"  said  Ho  Ha.     He 
drawled    the    words.     "Wait — a — minute.     You    are 
not  holding  school,  now.     Who  sent  you  ? " 
The  spokeswoman  stiffened.     She  replied,  angrily : 
"We  represent  the  Feeling  of  a  Community.  We — 
"And  this,"  observed  Ho  Ha,  not  waiting  for  her, 


MERMAID  25 

"is  another  community.  If  you  represent  any  feelings 
except  your  own  and  those  of  a  few  other  meddlesome 
women,  Miss  Errily,  it's  the  first  time  in  forty  years — 
you're  about  sixty-two,  aren't  you?  My  father  was 
in  your  first  class  and  you  were  about  twenty-two 
then." 

"Hosea!"  said  the  keeper,  in  a  low  tone  of  rebuke, 
but  he  shook  oddly  as  he  said  it. 

"My  age,"  quivered  Miss  Errily,  "whatever  it  is, 
should  be  sufficient  to  insure  Respectful  Treatment." 
But  she  was  obviously  upset.  Mrs.  Brand  took  her 
place. 

"Insult  me,  if  you  dare,  Hosea  Hand!"  she  cried, 
challengingly.  Ho  Ha  looked  at  her  thoughtfully. 

"I  wouldn't  tell  any  one  to  his  face  what  you  write 
about  people  to  other  people,  Maria  Brand,"  he  re- 
joined. "I  still  have  your  letter  in  which  you  wrote  me 
that  Cap'n  Smiley's  sister " 

"I  never  wrote  such  a  letter!"  almost  shrieked 
Maria  Brand,  with  a  look  of  half  terror  at  the  keeper, 
whose  eye,  fixed  on  the  glittering  ocean,  remained  there. 
Ho  Ha,  turning  to  Mrs.  Dayton  as  if  he  were  finishing 
a  sentence  addressed  to  her,  went  on  implacably. 

" — if  you  must  look  after  other  people's  children, 
why  not  look  after  your  husband's?"  Mrs.  Dayton 
went  red  and  white,  half  opened  her  lips,  and  then 
started  to  walk  rapidly  away.  The  ranks  had  broken. 
Miss  Errily  and  Maria  Brand,  followed  by  Mrs.  Horton, 


26  MERMAID 

were  also  in  rapid  retreat  in  the  direction  taken  by 
Amelia  Dayton  who  had  no  children,  and  whose  hus- 
band's did  not  bear  the  name  of  Dayton.  Cap'n  Smiley 
frowned  on  his  surfman.  "That  was  going  too  far!" 
he  censured  him. 

"Not  a  bit,  not  a  bit!"  said  Ho  Ha  with  heat.  "Noth- 
ing but  a  pack  of  busybodies!  Dick  Dayton's  brats 
roll  in  dirt  while  Amelia  Dayton  lends  money  at  usury. 
My  regret  is  that  I  didn't  get  a  chance  to  ask  Jane 
Horton  if  she  had  paid  her  farmer's  fine  yet.  You  know 
he  watered  the  milk  and  I  can  guess  by  whose  orders!" 

VI 

For  the  birthday  party  they  had  Mrs.  Biggies  and  her 
Henry  as  guests,  and  a  great  cake  made  by  Ho  Ha  from  a 
recipusupplied  by  Mrs.  Biggies.  It  carried  seven  candles 
— one  for  each  of  Mermaid's  years  and  one,  the  same 
ones,  to  be  sure,  for  each  of  her  seven  uncles.  Dad,  as 
Cap'n  Smiley  desired  her  to  call  him,  blew  them  all  out 
with  one  vasty  breath,  whereat  Mrs.  Biggies  cried  out 
that  this  was  Mermaid's  privilege.  But  the  little  girl 
could  not  extinguish  her  seven  candles  all  at  once  any 
more  than  she  could  kiss  her  seven  uncles  collectively,  so 
she  gave  individual  attention  to  each  candle  and  each 
uncle.  Mrs.  Biggies  must  have  a  kiss,  too,  and  returned 
it  several  times  over;  and  became  so  excited  that  she 
kissed  her  Henry  in  his  and  the  public  eye,  but  then,  as 
she  observed,  his  whiskers  left  her  hardly  any  other 


MERMAID  27 

region  and  her  surroundings  left  her  hardly  any  other 
choice.  There  was  much  jesting  and  even  a  drinking 
of  healths  in  some  cider  Mrs.  Biggles's  Henry  had  con- 
tributed, the  chief  toast  being  Cap'n  Smiley 's  "to  my 
seven  surfmen  and  one  surfwoman"  with  a  pinch  of 
Mermaid's  soft  pink  cheek. 

Spring  swept  into  summer;  the  green  meadows  were 
set  off  by  great  blooms  of  pink  marsh  mallow;  the  sun, 
shining  down  vertically  on  the  white  sand  of  the  beach, 
caused  a  brilliant  glare  that  changed,  at  the  horizons, 
to  a  blue  haze  of  heat.  White-sailed  boats  moved  over 
the  five-mile  width  of  Great  South  Bay,  taking  to  and 
fro  men  in  white  trousers  and  gaily-clad  women  and 
children  who  might  wish  to  spend  a  day  at  the  tavern 
to  the  westward  of  the  station,  a  place  of  ragtime 
music,  clicking  billiard  balls,  "shore"  dinners,  and 
home-prepared  lunches.  The  clean  sand  was  daily 
littered  with  empty  shoeboxes  and  crumpled  paper 
napkins  by  these  family  groups  who  picnicked  between 
dips  in  the  surf.  Except  for  a  few  inevitable  "fine 
swimmers"  they  clung,  laughing  and  shrieking,  to  a 
line  of  rope  tethered  to  a  barrel  just  beyond  the  break 
of  the  waves. 

With  the  children  of  these  beach  parties  Mermaid 
could  play  the  day  long  and  sometimes  did ;  many  of  the 
visitors  were  summer  residents  of  the  south  shore  of 
Long  Island,  but  not  many  of  them  had  heard  the 
little  girl's  story;  if  they  gave  her  any  thought  they 


28  MERMAID 

accepted  her  as  a  child  of  one  of  the  Coast  Guardsmen. 
Strollers  who  came  to  the  station  to  look  at  the 
apparatus  of  life  saving — the  breeches  buoy,  the  life 
car  which  travelled  to  and  from  a  distressed  ship  and  the 
shore,  the  surf  boat  resting  on  its  truck,  and  ready  to 
be  hauled  laboriously  through  a  mile  or  more  of  sand, 
the  gun — these  people  would  see  Mermaid,  but  never 
think  to  ask  her  history.  Why  should  they,  indeed, 
even  suppose  she  had  one  ?  And  in  telling  of  wrecks 
along  the  beach  Cap'n  Smiley  generally  omitted  any 
mention  of  one;  if  he  was  asked  about  the  time  the 
Mermaid  came  ashore  he  would  answer  quite  willingly, 
but  a  specific  question  was  necessary  to  elicit  the  most 
romantic  and  still  mysterious  part  of  that  story. 

The  keeper  had  many  other  tales  unusual  enough  to 
satisfy  the  craving  of  the  casual  caller  for  a  pictur- 
esque yarn.  Out  of  his  thirty  years  at  the  station  he 
could  supply  episodes  ranging  from  the  ridiculous  to 
the  horrible,  and  many  rehearsals,  joined  to  some 
natural  gift  as  a  narrator,  enabled  him  to  tell  his 
stones  well.  In  pleasant  summer  weather,  however, 
they  lost  much  of  their  possible  effectiveness;  to 
appraise  them  at  their  true  worth  you  had  to  hear 
them  in  winter,  sitting  and  smoking  or  dreaming  by 
the  blazing  stove  in  the  station's  long  living  room, 
a  lamp  swinging  overhead,  the  wind  shaking  the 
building  while  the  sound  of  the  not-distant  surf  came 
in  to  you  as  a  thunderous  and  unbroken  roar.  On  a 


MERMAID  29 

summer's  night  with  all  the  stars  shining,  the  wind 
whispering  and  bringing  coolness  from  the  leagues  of 
ocean,  the  surf  merely  murmuring  and — yes,  the 
mosquitoes  biting  moderately — on  such  a  night  you 
could  form  no  just  conception  of  the  setting  in  which 
these  tales  belonged. 

With  fall,  came  the  question  of  Mermaid  and  school. 
After  a  severe  mental  struggle  Cap'n  Smiley  decided 
that  this  could  go  over  for  a  year.  He  could  teach  the 
child  her  letters;  as  a  matter  of  fact,  she  already  knew 
most  of  them  from  the  weekly  practice  at  wigwagging 
with  the  red  and  white  flags.  The  keeper  knew  of  no  one 
on  "the  mainland"  to  whom  he  felt  willing  to  entrust 
the  child;  he  was  inclined  to  consider  his  sister  out  of 
the  question;  in  another  year  some  satisfactory  ar- 
rangement might  present  itself.  Besides,  both  he  and 
the  men,  but  he  himself  particularly,  would  be  loath 
to  part  with  Mermaid.  She  was  a  big  thing  in  their 
lives,  and  in  Cap'n  Smiley's  the  biggest.  Mrs. 
Biggies  had  said  lately  that  she  and  her  Henry  were 
getting  along;  they  contemplated  giving  up  life  on  the 
beach  except  for  a  short  while  in  summer.  They 
would  take  a  house  in  Blue  Port  and  live  there  ten 
months  out  of  the  twelve.  Should  they  do  this  Mer- 
maid would  have  a  good  home  while  she  was  getting 
her  schooling;  Cap'n  Smiley  and  the  crew  would  miss 
her  sorely,  but  their  minds  would  be  easy,  and  every 
one  of  them  on  his  twenty-four  hours'  leave  could 


30  MERMAID 

look  in  on  her  and  see  how  she  was.  .  .  .  When 
the  time  should  be  ripe  to  carry  this  general  scheme 
into  execution  it  was  Cap'n  Smiley's  intention  legally 
to  adopt  Mermaid,  although,  as  he  said  to  himself, 
Mermaid  Smiley  would  not  do  as  a  name.  It  had  al- 
together too  strong  a  flavour  of  the  portraits  on  certain 
pages  of  the  Sunday  newspapers.  He  would  adopt 
her  as  Mary  Smiley  .  .  .  though  in  all  likelihood 
she  would  always  be  called  Mermaid.  The  name 
well  befitted  her,  dancing  about  down  there  on  the 
beach  and  slipping  in  and  out  of  the  water  in  the  bath- 
ing suit  Mrs.  Biggies  had  made  for  her  from  some  old 
dress  of  pale  green  with  silver  edgings.  Musing  over 
the  name  Cap'n  Smiley  burst  into  such  laughter  that 
Ha  Ha  the  Gloomy,  peeling  potatoes  in  the  kitchen, 
gave  a  start  and  cut  his  finger. 

"I  was  just  thinking  of  Henry  Biggles's  father,"  the 
keeper  explained.  "Member  him?  Lived  here  on 
the  beach.  Eighteen  children.  Old  Jacob  Biggies 
hadn't  much  education;  in  fact,  he  couldn't  read  and 
write.  Named  most  of  the  children  after  vessels  that 
came  ashore  on  the  beach.  One  was  Monarch  Biggies — 
you've  heard  of  Mon  Biggies? — and  another  was 
Siamese  Prince  Biggies — that's  Si  Biggies.  Then 
along  came  a  lot  of  boys  and  a  lot  of  wrecks  named  the 
Queen,  the  Merry  Maid,  and  other  unsuitable  things. 
Poor  Jacob  was  in  despair.  Some  of  the  boys  had  to 
wait  eight  years  to  get  a  handle." 


MERMAID  31 

"He  could  have  got  names  out  of  the  Bible,"  Ha  Ha 
pointed  out. 

"He  could  get  'em  but  he  couldn't  pronounce  'em." 

VII 

In  September  Mermaid  and  Cap'n  Smiley  and  Ho  Ha 
went  beach-plumming.  As  they  wandered  over  the 
dunes  picking  the  blue-red-purple  berries  there  was 
much  conversation,  sometimes  conducted  in  shouts, 
when  the  three  were  spread  a  little  apart. 

"D'  you  know  the  Latin  name  of  these  plums, 
Hosea?"  demanded  the  keeper.  Ho  Ha  looked  very 
serious. 

"My  bad  mark  in  school  was  always  in  Latin!" 

The  keeper  winked  at  Mermaid.  Ho  Ha  had  gone  to 
a  little  red  schoolhouse,  winters,  until  he  was  thirteen. 

"It's  prunus  maritima,"  he  reminded  the  scholar. 
"That's  almost  calling  'em  maritime  prunes." 

"They're  commoner  than  prunes  with  us.  Do  they 
get  the  name  from  being  served  in  sailors'  boarding- 
houses?" 

"You  were  shanghaied  to  sea,  once,  weren't  you, 
Hosea?" 

"Sixteen  when  it  happened.  On  South  Street,  New 
York.  Froze  my  feet  standing  a  trick  at  the  wheel  off 
Cape  Horn.  Mate  came  into  the  fo'c's'le  and  grabbed 
one  foot  and  twisted  it  until  I  howled;  then  he  pulled 
me  out  on  deck,"  said  the  Coast  Guard,  reminiscently. 


32  MERMAID 

"I'd  always  been  sort  of  crazy  about  the  sea  from  a  kid." 
He  emptied  his  pickings  into  a  big  basket,  straightened 
up  a  moment,  resumed  his  picking,  and  said : 

"I  worshipped,  just  about,  an  uncle,  my  mother's 
brother,  who'd  been  to  sea  all  his  life.  And  when  I  was 
a  shaver  on  our  farm  up  in  the  hills  in  the  middle  of  the 
Island  I  slept  in  the  attic.  Every  night,  Cap'n,  as  I 
got  in  bed  I  could  see  through  a  little  attic  window, 
right  over  the  tree  tops  Fire  Island  light.  'Twas  maybe 
twenty  miles  away.  'Twould  show,  just  a  faint  spark, 
then  kindle,  then  glow  bright,  then  flame  like — like  a 
beacon.  Just  for  a  few  seconds;  then  'twould  die  out. 
Occulting.  It  seemed  to  beckon  to  me.  I  was  only  a 
kid  and  there  was  something  wonderful  and  friendly 
about  that  light!  And  secret,  too.  It  seemed  to  be 
signalling  just  to  me,  a  little  chap  in  an  ice-cold  attic  on 
a  lonely  hill  farm.  Seemed  as  if  that  light  said :  'Come 
on,  Hosea  Hand!  I'm  set  here  to  tell  you  that  there's 
a  great  world  out  here  waiting  for  you!  I'm  an  out- 
post! There's  lands  and  peoples  and  adventures  and 
ten  thousand  leagues  of  ocean — and  there's  life,  the 
greatest  adventure  of  all!  Hurry  up  and  grow  up, 
Hosea  Hand!'  And  then  all  shivering  and  excited,  I'd 
crouch  under  the  big,  pieced  quilt  and  watch  that  light 
come  and  glow,  shine  and  dim,  flame  and  go  out — until 
I'd  fall  asleep  and  dream  I  was  out  there  where  it 
called  me!" 

The  little  girl  listened,  fascinated.     She  had  stopped 


MERMAID  33 

picking,  and  her  childish  breast  rose  and  fell  with  quick 
breathing.  Cap'n  Smiley  picked  perfunctorily  and 
once  his  hand  closed  so  tightly  about  the  coloured  plums 
that  they  crushed  them.  Ho  Ha  worked  steadily  and 
after  a  few  moments  he  went  on: 

"I  was  fourteen  when  my  father  died.  The  year 
before  I'd  quit  school  to  help  work  the  farm.  In  those 
days  there  wasn't  any  science  called  agriculture.  We 
just  tilled  the  soil.  My  father  was  always  trying  to 
get  more  land;  I  used  to  wonder  what  for,  when  it  was 
such  slavery  to  work  it!  Maybe  he  suspicioned  the 
day  would  come  when  we'd  understand  the  soil  and 
know  how  to  make  it  yield  without  back-breaking  and 
heart-break." 

"Your  brother  is  pretty  comfortably  off,  Hosea." 

"Yes,"  said  Ho  Ha,  with  a  curious  inflection.  "Yes, 
Richard's  comfortable.  But  he's  getting  along.  You 
know  he's  ten  years  older  than  me." 

Cap'n  Smiley  gave  an  ejaculation  of  surprise.  There 
had  been  some  unfairness  of  dealing  by  Richard  Hand 
with  Hosea  Hand  after  their  father's  death,  but  the 
keeper  did  not  know  exactly  what  it  was.  The  Blue 
Port  story  had  it  that  Richard  Hand  had  wanted  his 
brother  to  stay  and  help  work  the  farm,  and  Ho  Ha 
had  run  off  to  sea  instead.  Back  of  this  lay  a  tale  of  the 
father's  will.  This  had  left  the  dead  man's  estate  to 
be  divided  equally  between  the  sons.  Richard,  how- 
ever, was  to  have  the  farm  intact;  and  he  was  to  effect 


34  MERMAID 

such  a  settlement  as  would  assure  Hosea  of  his  share  in 
cash  for  whatever  use  he  wanted  to  make  of  it.  The 
father's  idea  had  been  simple:  the  younger  boy  hated 
the  farm  and  wanted  an  education;  this  money  would 
help  him  get  it;  after  that  he  must  fend  for  himself. 

So  much  Cap'n  Smiley  knew;  so  much,  indeed,  every- 
body knew.  The  rest  no  one  appeared  exactly  to  know, 
but  the  general  impression  was  that  Richard,  as  execu- 
tor, had  wound  up  his  father's  affairs  to  suit  himself. 

"What  happened?"  Cap'n  Smiley  asked  himself  as 
he  picked  away,  giving  only  absent  attention  to  Mer- 
maid's chatter.  "Knowing  Richard  Hand  as  I  do,  I 
suspect  Hosea  never  got  a  cent  of  money  and  never  will. 
I  can  make  a  pretty  good  guess  that  after  paying  the 
debts  there  was  nothing  left  but  the  farm.  To  settle 
fairly  with  the  boy,  Dick  Hand  would  have  had  to 
borrow  money  by  mortgaging  the  place — and  I  don't 
see  him  doing  that ! 

"  Humph ! "  concluded  the  keeper  to  himself.  "  Four- 
teen-year-old boy  with  no  one  to  look  out  to  see  he  got 
his  rights.  No  lawyer  had  a  hand  in  that  estate! 
Dick  delays  the  settlement;  in  the  meantime,  his  young 
brother  gets  restless.  Dick  treats  him  badly;  insists 
the  boy  stay  and  help  work  the  farm;  Hosea  runs  away. 
Dick  winds  up  the  estate;  represents  himself  willing  to 
settle  with  his  brother  but  unable  to;  don't  know  his 
whereabouts.  Ho  Ha  away  for  years;  when  he  comes 
back  he  tells  his  brother  to  go  to  the  devil ! " 


MERMAID  35 

Mermaid  was  conducting  a  dialogue  with  the  wronged 
Hosea. 

"Uncle  Ho!"  she  cried,  and  Cap'n  Smiley  was  re- 
minded of  the  "Land,  ho!"  of  the  sailor.  "Wasn't 
that  a  queer  way  for  David  to  deal  with  the  Ph'listines  ?" 
Mrs.  Biggies  read  the  Bible  Sunday  mornings  to  her 
Henry  and  Mermaid. 

"Why,"  inquired  Mermaid,  "do  you  suppose  he 
spanked  them?" 

"Who  spanked?" 

"David  spanked  the  Ph'listines,"  explained  Mer- 
maid. Ho  Ha  and  the  keeper  eyed  each  other  and  then 
looked  perplexedly  at  the  red-haired  mite.  "How  do  you 
know  he  spanked  the  Philistines?"  ventured  the  keeper. 

"Why,  it  says  he  smote — that  means  struck — them 
'hip  and  thigh,'"  she  replied.  "I'll  be  awful  glad 
when  I  can  read  about  it  myself.  David  threw  a  stone 
at  Gollyath  and  killed  him.  Maybe  a  good  spanking 
was  all  Gollyath  needed." 

"Maybe,"  assented  Cap'n  Smiley.  Ho  Ha  was 
speechless.  The  keeper  looked  at  him.  "See  your 
uncle,  Mermaid,"  he  directed.  "Living  up  to  his  name, 
isn't  he?" 

The  child  caught  the  contagion  of  laughter  and 
bubbled  with  it  herself.  "Do  tell  me  what's  so  funny, 
Uncle  Ho,"  she  begged.  "Please  do!" 

"A  ghost  just  told  me  a  joke,"  said  Ho  Ha,  looking  at 
her  with  twinkling  eyes.  Mermaid  was  alert  and  ex- 


36  MERMAID 

cited  at  once.  She  believed  in  ghosts,  not  only  because 
she  was  seven  years  old  but  because  she  lived  on  the 
Great  South  Beach  where  ghosts  are  natural  and  both 
respectable  and  respected.  She  clamoured  to  hear  the 
joke.  Ho  Ha  considered.  He  did  not  know  as  he 
ought  to  tell  her;  perhaps  the  ghost  would  not  like  that; 
it  might  want  to  tell  Mermaid  itself. 

"Could  you  tell  me  what  ghost  it  is?'*  the  youngster 
besought  him.  "Was  it  the  Duneswoman  ? " 

"No,"  Ho  Ha  answered.  "It  was  one  of  the  pirates. 
One  of  Kidd's  men.  One  of  those  fellows  with  gold 
earrings  and  black  whiskers.  Well — I  don't  know's 
there's  any  harm  in  my  telling  you.  He  said  if  Kidd 

had  been  spanked  proper  as  a  boy "  Ho  Ha 

stopped,  as  if  no  more  need  be  said,  and  shook  his  head 
with  a  regretful  air.  Mermaid  remarked  : 

"Do  you  suppose,  Uncle  Ho,  that  Mrs.  Biggies  spanks 
Mr.  Biggies?" 

"No  doubt  she  has  to  sometimes,"  agreed  Ho  Ha, 
with  perfect  seriousness. 

Mermaid  emptied  her  apron  of  a  pint  of  plums. 
Her  mind  slipped  back  to  ghosts. 

"Dad,"  she  asked  Cap'n  Smiley,  "does  the  Dunes- 
woman  know  everything  about  the  beach  ? " 

"I  think  she  does,  pretty  nearly,"  the  keeper  told  her. 
"  Do  you  see  much  of  her  ? " 

"Only  her  head  and  arms.  Sometimes  she  reaches  out 
her  arm  to  me." 


MERMAID  37 

"  I  meant,  do  you  see  her  often  ? " 

"Oh,  yes!  Except  when  I'm  with  Mrs.  Biggies. 
Mrs.  Biggies  says  she  never  has  seen  her.  She  says  I 
ought  not  to  see  her  and  mustn't  pay  any  'tendon  to 
her,"  Mermaid  informed  him. 

"Perhaps  that's  because  Mrs.  Biggies  never  sees  her 
and  doesn't  know  how  nice  she  is." 

"Just  what  /  said."  Mermaid  bit  a  plum  and  made 
a  wry  face.  She  wanted  to  ask  Dad  more  about  the 
Duneswoman. 

That  was  a  ghost  only  he  and  she  had  seen — a  lovely 
Face  and  Arm  that  sometimes  floated  for  an  instant  on 
the  dark  summer  ocean,  looked  toward  you  .  .  . 
and  was  gone. 

VIII 

A  golden  October  when,  for  days,  the  sun  shone 
and  the  beach  was  veiled  with  faintly  coloured  mists; 
when  the  crack  of  duck  hunters'  guns  came  from  over 
the  bay;  when  the  ocean  advanced  on  the  smoothly 
sanded  shore  in  long  and  majestic  curves,  so  that  to 
stand  upon  the  dunes  and  look  at  it  was  like  looking 
down  a  flight  of  steps  of  boundless  width.  .  .  . 
The  Atlantic  made  itself  into  a  glittering  staircase 
leading  straight  to  the  sun. 

October!  Driftwood  was  gathered  from  the  beach  for 
burning  in  the  Biggles's  fireplace  where  it  snapped  and 
was  consumed  by  the  green  and  blue  and  parti-coloured 


38  MERMAID 

flames.  Before  the  singing  and  rainbow  fire  Mermaid 
often  knelt  at  dusk.  Mrs.  Biggies  would  spread  a  slice 
of  bread  for  her  with  jelly  made  from  the  beach  plums 
gathered  a  month  earlier.  There  is  a  wild-woodish, 
bitter-sweet  flavour  peculiar  to  beach  plum  jelly  and 
preserves.  Mermaid  loved  it.  To  taste  it  while  dream- 
ing before  the  magic  fire  was  delicious  beyond  words. 

October!  It  began  to  be  sharp  o'  nights.  The  men 
at  the  station  rolled  themselves  in  blankets,  as  they 
slept  without  sheets  in  an  unheated  attic.  Only  Mer- 
maid had  a  regular  bed  with  sheets  and  pillow  cases  and 
a  gay  comforter.  Stormy  days  began,  and  long,  won- 
derful evenings  about  the  blazing  stove  in  the  station's 
big  room.  Cap'n  Smiley  read  aloud  and  told  stories; 
the  men  asked  questions  and  spun  yarns.  Mermaid, 
curled  up  in  a  corner,  listened  eagerly,  hardly  daring  to 
speak  lest  the  hour  be  noted  and  they  pack  her  off" to  bed. 
Wild  stories,  weird  stories.  Cap'n  Smiley  is  speaking. 
"Ah,"  says  the  keeper.  "There  was  that  steamship 
which  broke  her  machinery  some  way  off  here  and  could 
only  move  on  reversed  propellers.  She  backed  all  the 
way  from  here  to  Sandy  Hook.  And  there  was  that 
ship  with  the  cargo  of  salt.  When  she  came  ashore  it 
salted  the  ocean;  the  water  was  a  little  brinier  for 
days.  And  we  got  aboard  as  she  lay  on  the  bar  at  low 
tide,  the  sea  having  gone  down.  Not  a  soul.  All  swept 
overboard  and  lost.  We  peered  down  a  hatch,  then 
I  went  down  all  alone.  I  had  an  awful  setback  when, 


MERMAID  39 

on  my  moving  some  sacks,  out  bobbed  a  dead  man 
staring  straight  at  me.  Dead,  and  propped  up  in  the 
salt.  But  the  worst  was  the  wreck  of  the  Farallone. 
Some  of  you  weren't  here  then  and  as  for  you,  Joe" 
—he  addressed  the  youngest  surfman — "you  hadn't 
been  born.  The  Farallone.  Yes. 

"She  came  ashore  on  a  night  when  you  couldn't  see 
your  upraised  hand.  She  struck  hard  on  the  outer  bar 
and  broached  to  in  the  trough  of  the  sea.  It  was 
freezing  cold.  We  saw — nothing.  Up  there  on  the 
dunes  we  fired  shot  after  shot,  sending  out  line  after  line; 
pure  guesswork.  Finally  one  landed  and  was  made 
fast.  The  crew  began  coming  ashore.  About  a  dozen 
trips  of  the  buoy,  I  think.  And  from  what  we  could 
learn  the  captain  and  the  cook  were  left. 

"The  cook  came  along  all  right,  and  then  we  hauled 
the  buoy  back  for  the  skipper. 

"At  the  signal — jerks  on  the  line — we  pulled.  The 
buoy  came  along  for  maybe  fifteen  feet  and  then 
checked.  Dead  stop.  We  couldn't  budge  it  a  foot 
farther.  We  hauled  back  and  tried  over  again.  Came 
just  so  far  and  then  stuck,  immovable. 

"You  couldn't  see,  you  couldn't  hear.  There  was 
nothing  to  do  but  to  haul  back  and  forward,  back  and 
forward  about  a  hundred  times.  We  wore  ourselves  all 
out,  though  probably  the  work  was  all  that  kept  us  from 
freezing  to  death.  Some  of  us  had  frostbites.  After  a 
while  a  faint  light  appeared.  Dawn,  frightened  by 


40  MERMAID 

that  merciless  gale.  Dawn,  and  then  daylight;  and  at 
last  we  could  see.  The  ocean  went  down;  wind  had 
gone  down  in  the  night.  What  we  saw  was  the  body 
of  the  captain  of  the  Farallone  hanging  stiffly  in  the 
buoy. 

"The  line  had  been  made  fast  to  the  mast  too  near  the 
deck.  As  we  hauled  away  each  man,  coming  to  the 
ship's  bulwark,  had  to  lift  his  body  over  it.  The  last 
man  had  been  able  to  get  into  the  buoy,  but  in  the 
minute  or  two  before  he  reached  the  bulwark  he  had 
frozen  helpless;  and  when  he  came  to  it  he  couldn't 
lift  himself  over." 

There  was  a  silence  in  which  men  drew  on  their  pipes. 
The  hand  of  young  Joe  Sayre,  Surfman  No.  7,  rolling  a 
cigarette,  shook  slightly.  Mermaid  saw  the  scene. 
She  burned  to  ask  her  Dad  if  he,  or  any  of  the  others, 
had  seen  the  Duneswoman  that  night  in  the  fearful 
storm.  Had  she  walked  abroad  on  the  waters,  passing 
unharmed  through  the  great  breakers  of  inky-black 
water  with  invisible  crests  of  white  and  curling  foam  ? 
Her  face — did  no  one  see  it  beside  the  staring  form  of  the 
dying  skipper?  Did  none  see  her  arm  about  him? 
Why  had  she  not  lifted  him  over  the  rail?  See.  .  .  . 
Dad  had  said  no  one  could  see  anything.  But  you 
could  always  see  the  Duneswoman  when  she  was  about, 
however  black  the  night.  Who  was  she?  The  little 
girl  lost  herself  in  a  timid  reverie. 

"Lemons,"     Uncle     Ho     was     saying.     "Oranges, 


MERMAID  41 

onions — fine  big  Spanish  onions  from  Valencia;  pine- 
apples and  pomegranates,  even  Havana  see-gars  but 
mostly  spoiled  by  salt  water.  Once,  army  blankets; 
we  slept  warm  that  winter.  Cocoanuts  every  little 
while.  The  next  cocoanut  I  find  I'll  carve  a  mask  out 
of  for  Mermaid." 

Her  cheeks  flushed  and  she  tossed  her  hair  and 
looked  at  him  with  dancing  eyes.  Wasn't  Uncle  Ho 
good!  And  he  was  wonderfully  skillful  with  a  knife;  a 
full  rigged  ship  carved  in  a  great  glass  bottle  lay  in  the 
keeper's  room  to  witness  his  craftsmanship.  He  did 
marvellous  things  with  bits  of  rope.  He  had  promised 
to  make  her  a  hammock  and  with  some  fine  white  rope 
he  was  braiding  a  mat  to  adorn  the  little  shelf  which 
was  her  dressing  table.  Rose  knots,  diamond  knots; 
knots  and  hitches  and  splices  without  number — Uncle 
Ho  was  master  of  them  all.  Mermaid  listened  to  his 
further  talk  about  the  things  that  ships  jettison  and  the 
things  that  wash  ashore. 

"Even  little  girls  come  ashore,"  said  Uncle  Ho  with 
great  seriousness  and  nodding  his  head  many  times. 
"Not  to  speak  of  animals.  We  brought  a  Shetland 
pony  to  land  in  the  breeches  buoy  and,  Mermaid,  you 
should  have  heard  him  squeal!"  Mermaid  gave  a 
little  squeal  of  her  own.  "Not  like  that,"  corrected 
Ho  Ha.  "He  said,  'Nay-ay-ay.  Nay-yay-yay-yay!' 
That  means  'No!'  Why,  a  Dutch  ship,  named  the 
Dutch  for  good  luck,  had  a  cow  in  the  afterhold  to 


42  MERMAID 

provide  the  skipper  with  fresh  milk  every  morning. 
And  lots  of  ships  have  pigs  aboard  'em.  Sheep,  too. 
You  might  get  wool  enough  for  a  new  suit  of  homespun. 

"  But  the  strangest  thing  was  the  animal  ship.  Mind 
I  don't  say  it  was  Noah's  Ark,  Mermaid.  The  skipper 
was  a  youngish  man,  not  old  enough  to  be  Noah.  May- 
be one  of  his  sons.  Now  this  Ark  of  Noah  &  Sons  came 
ashore  in  fine  weather,  but  very  thick.  So  much  fog 
young  Noah  couldn't  tell  where  he  was.  He  couldn't 
shoot  the  sun  at  noon.  Well 

"He  had  pairs  of  almost  all  kinds  of  animals  aboard. 
They  were  a  consignment  to  the  big  Zoo  in  New  York. 
There  was  a  pair  of  camels  and  a  pair  of  leopards  and  a 
pair  of  lions  and  pairs  of  snakes  and  two  beautiful 
giraffes  with  necks  so  long  that  they  could  see  as  well  as 
a  man  in  the  topgallant  rigging.  The  Ark  came  on  in 
fine  weather  but  it  didn't  stay  fine.  Bad  southeasterly 
storm  blew  up  and  when  it  abated  the  Ark  was  so  leaky 
that  the  skipper — young  Noah — put  the  animals  over 
the  side  thinking  they'd  drown.  He  hated  to  do  it,  but 
the  ship  was  all  going  to  pieces.  But  you  know,  Mer- 
maid, that  all  animals  can  swim.  And  most  of  these 
critters  swam  ashore.  Little  girl,  you  should  have  seen 
them!  But,  no!  I'm  glad  you  weren't  here.  Life 
wasn't  safe  on  the  beach  here  then  with  those  pairs  of 
animals  ranging  about.  Finally  we  had  to  shoot  them 
all  with  the  little  brass  cannon." 

Mermaid  had  been  listening,  at  first  doubtfully  and 


MERMAID  43 

with  enchanted  pleasure;  but  now  something  about  the 
story  itself  joined  to  some  oddity  of  expression  in  the 
faces  of  her  other  uncles  caused  her  to  say: 

"Uncle  Ho,  that  isn't  so,  is  it?" 

"Not  so,  but  so-so,"  replied  Ho  Ha,  persuasively. 
"  If  you  mean,  is  it  true,  why — 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind  it's  not  being  true,"  explained  the 
little  girl,  twisting  her  fingers.  "It  spoils  things  to 
have  them  true — just  a  little — doesn't  it?" 

The  smile  left  Ho  Ha's  face. 

"By  gracious!  I  believe  that's  a  fact!"  he  ex- 
claimed. 

IX 

Keturah  Smiley  stopped  digging  potatoes  and 
walked  briskly  back  to  her  house.  She  washed  her 
hands,  but  did  not  change  her  shabby  old  man's  coat. 
Keturah's  everyday  attire  was  preponderantly  mascu- 
line. She  refrained,  however,  from  wearing  trousers. 
But  a  man's  soft  hat  was  generally  pinned  to  her  head, 
a  man's  coat  was  usually  on  her  back,  and  her  low- 
heeled,  heavy-soled  walking  shoes  were  number  eights. 

She  dried  her  hands,  put  them  in  the  coat  pockets  and 
started  up  the  lane  to  the  centre  of  the  village.  On  the 
way  she  met  Sim  Jenkins,  and  told  him  sharply  that  if 
he  didn't  pay  the  interest  on  his  mortgage  more 
promptly  she  would  demand  the  principal.  Sim 
looked  frightened.  He  knew  that  Keturah  would  not 
hesitate  to  foreclose. 


44  MERMAID 

At  the  principal  street  intersection  of  Blue  Port 
stood  the  postoffice  and  the  few  clustered  shops.  There 
was  one  two-story  structure  which  constituted  Blue 
Port's  only  office  building.  On  the  ground  floor  were 
a  real  estate  agent,  a  milliner,  and  a  store  where  cigars 
and  soft  drinks,  magazines  and  writing  paper  could  be 
bought.  Up  the  flight  of  stairs  were  a  doctor's  office 
and  the  places  of  business  of  Blue  Port's  lawyers. 
Blue  Port  had  one  saloon,  two  churches,  and  three  law- 
yers, one  of  whom  was  a  justice  of  the  peace.  To  this 
functionary,  Judge  Hollaby,  Miss  Smiley  made  her 
way. 

The  Judge  was  sitting  in  his  office  with  his  feet  on  the 
desk  and  his  hat  on  his  head,  reading  Seneca  on  old  age. 
He  had  not  enjoyed  a  plate  of  oysters  the  evening  be- 
fore with  his  usual  relish,  and  this  had  profoundly 
depressed  him.  He  was  therefore  reading;  Judge 
Hollaby  found  in  reading  the  consolation  that  some 
men  find  in  drink,  although  he  was  by  no  means  a 
teetotaler. 

Miss  Smiley  opened  the  door  without  knocking.  As  she 
entered  rapidly  Judge  Hollaby  put  down  his  feet  with  an 
almost  youthful  spryness,  and  hastily  removed  his  hat. 
His  visitor,  to  his  pain,  picked  up  the  half-smoked 
cigar  that  lay  extinguished  on  a  corner  of  his  desk  and 
threw  it  in  the  cuspidor.  The  name  of  it  was  La 
Coloratura  and  it  had  cost  13  cents  straight. 

Judge  Hollaby  knew  better  than  to  waste  breath  in 


MERMAID  45 

formal  greetings.  Keturah  Smiley  seated  herself  and 
said: 

"  Don't  beat  around  the  bush  but  tell  me  in  words  I 
understand  just  the  disposition  of  the  property  my 
aunt  left  me." 

The  lawyer  felt  momentarily  flurried.  He  really  had 
forgotten  the  provisions  of  old  Keturah  Hawkins's  will. 
However,  it  would  not  do  to  say  so — wouldn't  do  at  all. 

"Entailed,  Miss  Smiley,  entailed,"  he  said  with  what 
he  intended  to  be  a  retrospective  and  thoughtful  air. 
To  his  client  it  seemed  merely  absent-minded. 

"Please  put  your  mind  on  this,  Judge  Hollaby!" 
she  commanded  in  a  tone  that  reminded  the  lawyer  of 
several  schoolma'ams  rolled  into  one.  "I  ask  you  to 
use  plain  words  and  you  start  off  by  using  a  word  like 
'entailed'!  Explain  yourself.  What  is  entail?" 

The  Judge  was  very  uncomfortable.  He  made  the 
absurd  mistake  of  trying  to  impress  his  visitor. 

"Under  entail,"  he  began  to  explain,  "an  estate  is 
so  bequeathed  that  the  inheritors  cannot  bequeath  it  at 
their  pleasure;  the  fee  is  abridged  and  curtailed " 

An  impatient  sound  escaped  Miss  Smiley. 

"Curtail,  if  you  please,"  she  said,  "your  fine-sound- 
ing description.  As  I  understand  the  matter,  my 
aunt  left  me  all  her  property  in  and  for  my  lifetime.  I 
am  to  have  the  free  use  of  it,  I  can  throw  it  all  in  the 
bayifllike- 

"  Except  the  real  estate,"  interjected  the  Judge. 


46  MERMAID 

"I  daresay  I  could  dam  Hawkins  creek  and  flood 
that,"  retorted  Keturah,  then  went  on:  "I  can  use 
every  cent  of  it,  spend  it,  waste  it;  and  if  there  is 
nothing  left,  no  one  will  inherit  it." 

"Naturally  not,"  assented  Judge  Hollaby. 

"Unnaturally,"  said  his  client,  sharply.  "It  would 
be  an  unnatural  thing  to  do." 

"Certainly  it  would,"  said  her  lawyer,  nervously. 
"Not  the  least  in  your  character."  Some  misfortune 
of  accent  caught  the  lady's  ear  and  she  rounded  on  him 
quickly. 

"What  is  my  character,  Judge  Hollaby?"  she  de- 
manded. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  oysters,  perhaps  it  was  Seneca  on 
old  age,  perhaps  it  was  a  sign  of  old  age  itself;  at  any 
rate,  the  justice's  mind  could  not  leap  gracefully  into 
the  breach  thus  torn  in  his  defences. 

"Your  character,  Miss  Smiley?"  He  tried  to  ex- 
press a  sense  of  shock  by  his  intonation. 

"I  am  not  loved,  I  suspect,"  Miss  Smiley  said,  ignor- 
ing his  palpable  distress.  "I  think  it  very  likely  there 
are  those  who  hate  me.  But  if  I  am  not  respected  in  the 
community  it  is  time  I  knew  it.  I  am  honest  and  I  deal 
uprightly.  I  don't  write  slanderous  letters,  like  Maria 
Brand;  I  don't  cheat,  like  Jane  Horton;  I  don't  try  to 
improve  everybody  like  that  uncommon  nuisance  of  an 
Errily  woman.  Nor  do  I  countenance  a  disgraceful 
husband,  as  Amelia  Dayton  does.  You  will  say  that  I 


MERMAID  47 

talk  like  a  Pharisee,  *  holier  than  thou*  and  so  forth. 
Judge  Hollaby,  if  there  were  more  Pharisees  it  would  be 
a  better  world !  A  precious  lot  of  men  and  women  can 
only  walk  straight  when  it's  to  outshine  their  neighbours 
who  are  walking  crooked!" 

Gradually  recovering,  the  lawyer  heard  Miss  Smiley 
saying: 

"I'm  not  here  to  preach  a  sermon,  but  to  get  informa- 
tion and  some  advice.  The  advice  I  may  take  and  I 
may  not;  the  information  I'll  certainly  take  if  I  can  get 
it  out  of  you." 

She  reverted  to  Keturah  Hawkins's  will.  "I  can  do  as 
I  please  absolutely  with  the  property?" 

"Unquestionably.  But  whatever  you  leave  goes  to 
your  brother,  if  he  survives  you,  and  to  his  children,  if 
he  has  any,  in  the  event  he  predeceases  you." 

"Predeceases!"  snorted  Miss  Smiley,  thrusting  her 
hands  in  her  pockets.  "What  a  word!  That  applies 
only  to  the  property  my  aunt  left?" 

"Only." 

"And  only  to  so  much  of  that  as  I  leave?" 

"Yes." 

"Why  do  you  call  it  entail?" 

The  lawyer's  heart  sank. 

"Under  our  laws,"  he  explained,  "the  bequest  could 
go  no  farther.  The  old  English  law  of  entail  is  broken 
here.  You  can  doubly  devise  but  you  cannot  do  more. 
The  law  says  that  the  dead  hand  shall  not " 


48  MERMAID 

Keturah  reflected,  her  severe  eyes  looking  at  and 
through  the  man.  She  could  question  him  freely 
whether  he  saw  the  drift  of  her  questions  or  not.  She 
had  a  moderate  contempt  for  Horace  Hollaby,  as  she 
had  for  most  men,  a  contempt  based  on  her  dealings 
with  them  in  which  she  invariably  came  out  best.  The 
justice  had  one  virtue,  however,  that  Keturah  con- 
sidered rare  in  males.  There  were  things  he  heard, 
things  he  knew,  and  things  he  guessed,  about  which 
he  never  talked.  On  certain  matters  she  had  never 
been  able  to  bully  a  word  out  of  him.  And  what- 
ever she  told  him  would  be  kept  in  the  back  of  his 
head. 

"My  brother,"  she  said,  her  face  almost  expression- 
less, "has,  or  had,  a  wife  and  child.  Are  they  presumed 
to  be  legally  dead?" 

Judge  Hollaby  told  her  they  were  not. 

"In  any  case,  my  sister-in-law  could  not  come  into  any 
of  the  property?" 

"No." 

"Could  an  adopted  child  of  my  brother  inherit  the 
property?" 

"I  should  say  not;  I  should  want  to  look  at  the  exact 
wording  of  your  aunt's  will." 

"You  needn't,"  said  Miss  Smiley,  rising  with  abrupt- 
ness. "For  if  my  brother  ever  adopts  a  child  I  shall 
give  away  or  throw  away  every  cent  of  that  money!" 
She  moved  with  decision  toward  the  door.  With  her 


MERMAID  49 

hand  on  the  knob  she  turned  and  said  brutally:     " Keep 
your  mouth  shut!" 

The  door  came  to  after  her  with  a  business-like  bang. 

X 

In  winter  the  Great  South  Bay  is  sometimes  frozen 
over,  and  then  it  can  be  crossed  very  swiftly  on  a 
scooter,  a  better  vehicle  than  the  Hudson  River  iceboat 
because  it  will  go  from  ice  into  water  and  back  again  on 
to  ice  without  a  spill.  It  is  also  more  easily  handled  and 
travels  faster.  But  there  are  days  and  sometimes  weeks 
when  the  bay  is  impassable  even  for  a  scooter,  which  is 
merely  a  tiny  boat  with  a  pair  of  runners,  after  all. 
Thaw  and  freeze,  freeze  and  thaw;  a  bay  full  of  big, 
floating  masses  of  ice,  or  so  ridged  and  hillocked  that 
nothing  but  an  airplane  will  take  you  over  it.  And 
there  were  no  airplanes  when  Mermaid,  all  wrapped  and 
mittened,  looked  out  upon  the  bay  that  winter  of  her 
eighth  year. 

There  was  a  telephone  linking  the  Coast  Guard  sta- 
tions on  the  beach  with  one  at  Quogue  on  the  Island  it- 
self, but  direct  communication  with  the  ordinary  system 
there  was  none.  On  one  side  of  the  living  room  of  the 
Quogue  Station  was  the  beach  phone,  on  the  opposite 
wall  was  a  "local  and  long  distance."  Members  of  the 
Quogue  crew,  called  up  on  either  wire,  obligingly  re- 
layed messages  along  the  other. 

In  this  manner  it  was  made  known  to  Cap'n  Smiley 


5o  MERMAID 

one  February  morning  that  his  sister  wished  to  see 
him. 

The  keeper  was  privately  astounded.  So  far  as  a 
hasty  recollection  served  him,  his  sister  had  never  before 
asked  to  see  him  about  anything.  The  bay  could  not 
be  crossed  and  he  sent  her  word  to  that  effect,  thinking 
that  she  might  disclose  her  purpose.  Her  reply,  toned 
down  by  the  drawl  of  Surfman  No.  3,  Quogue  Station, 
was  merely  for  him  to  visit  her  as  soon  as  possible  and 
to  bring  the  little  girl. 

While  waiting  for  the  bay  to  freeze  smooth,  or  clear 
from  further  thaws,  Cap'n  Smiley  had  some  uneasy  mo- 
ments. He  had  never  taken  Mermaid  to  his  sister's  and 
he  did  not  like  the  idea.  She  had  seen  the  little  girl; 
had  met  him  walking  with  Mermaid  on  the  streets  of 
Blue  Port;  had  stopped  to  exchange  a  frosty  word  or  two 
and  then  had  walked  on,  ignoring  the  child  completely. 
What  could  she  be  up  to  now? 

He  was  so  uneasy  that  he  raised  the  question,  in  a 
guarded  way,  with  Ho  Ha.  He  could  do  this,  for  Ho  Ha 
knew  all  about  his  sister,  and  without  actually  saying 
very  much,  both  could  say  a  good  deal. 

"My  opinion  she  has  some  proposition  to  lay  before 
you,"  commented  Ho  Ha. 

"I  don't  care  to  consider  propositions,"  replied  the 
keeper. 

Ho  Ha  drew  his  weathered  cheek  together  with  his 
fingers. 


MERMAID  51 

"It  might  advantage  Mermaid  some  way,"  he 
suggested. 

The  keeper  made  a  motion  indicative  of  distrust. 

About  a  week  elapsed  before  the  bay  froze  hard. 
Mermaid,  in  many  layers  of  wool,  with  a  red  muffler 
about  her  throat,  trotted  down  to  the  bayside  where  her 
Dad  put  her  in  the  scooter.  Then  as  the  odd  little  craft 
gathered  way,  he  half  reclined  so  as  to  steer  with  her  jib 
and  roll  about  handily  to  ballast  her. 

They  shot  along  at  a  mile  a  minute  or  better.  The 
air  was  like  impalpable  ice  pressing  against  Mermaid's 
small  cheeks  and  roaring  in  her  ears.  She  could  hardly 
open  her  eyes  for  the  rush  of  tears.  She  shouted,  but 
could  barely  make  herself  heard.  It  was  all  over  in 
five  or  six  minutes.  The  five-mile  stretch  had  been 
crossed;  Dad  rounded  to;  the  sail,  so  enormous  a  top- 
hamper  on  so  tiny  a  potbellied  body,  came  down,  and 
they  were  off  Blue  Port,  with  only  a  little  way  to  walk  to 
tread  the  reassuring,  if  rutty,  earth. 

Mermaid  put  her  hand  in  Dad's  and  they  walked  to 
the  old-fashioned  and  heavily  shuttered  house  where 
Keturah  lived.  She  met  them  at  the  door  and  ushered 
them  into  the  living  room,  which  was  also  the  kitchen, 
but  very  large,  so  that  there  was  no  sense  of  crowding. 
A  hot  fire  burned  in  the  stove,  and  slowly  Cap'n  Smiley 
divested  Mermaid  of  her  cocoon.  It  was  a  little  butter- 
fly of  an  unusual  sort  that  emerged.  Keturah,  looking 
with  a  severe,  impassive  face  at  the  proceeding,  said  at 


52  MERMAID 

last,  without  altering  a  muscle  of  her  face  or  softening 
her  customary  tone: 

"She  looks  very  much  as  you  would  have  looked, 
John,  at  her  age,  if  you  had  been  a  girl." 

Her  brother  stared  at  the  child  with  a  gentleness  in 
his  eyes  that  left  them  when  he  glanced  at  his  sister. 

"Are  you  going  to  adopt  her,  John?" 

The  answer  came  with  decision. 

"I  think  I  shall." 

"What  about  her  schooling?" 

"I  shall  arrange  for  that  next  year.  She  knows  her 
letters." 

"I'll  take  her  here  and  look  after  her." 

The  keeper  was  startled,  but  he  had  long  kept  him- 
self in  hand  in  the  presence  of  his  sister. 

"Thank  you,"  he  paused  slightly,  "but  I  shall  send 
her  to  the  Biggleses'." 

Keturah,  as  if  recalling  the  duties  of  hospitality,  said, 
"Sit  down.  I'll  make  a  cup  of  tea.  Do  you  like  bread 
and  jelly?" 

The  question  was  directed  at  Mermaid.  The  child 
had  been  eyeing  the  woman  with  attentiveness.  Now 
she  answered  politely,  though  she  did  not  smile: 

"I'm  fond  of  it." 

Keturah  Smiley  entered  her  pantry  and  emerged  with 
a  brown  jar  and  a  loaf.  She  cut  two  large  slices,  spread 
them,  and  set  a  teapot  on  the  stove.  She  said  no  more 
until  the  tea  was  brewed.  As  she  poured  out  two 


MERMAID  53 

steaming  cups  of  it  she  remarked,  pushing  one  toward 
her  brother: 

"What  I  leave  of  Aunt  Keturah's  property  goes  to  you. 
As  I  am  not  a  spendthrift,  in  the  natural  course  of  events 
I  would  leave  you  more  than  I  inherited.  If  you  die 
before  me  it  goes  to  your  children.  It  would  go  to  her/' 

John  Smiley  swallowed  too  hastily  and  burnt  his 
throat. 

"This  is  not  a  matter  to  discuss  before  Mermaid,"  he 
said,  shortly. 

"I  sent  for  her  because  I  wanted  to  have  a  good  look 
at  her,  and  I  wanted  you  to  have  her  to  look  at  while  you 
choose,"  Keturah  rejoined.  "At  first  I  thought  it 
would  not  go  to  an  adopted  child,  and  so  did  Judge 
Hollaby.  But  he  looked  it  up  and  the  wording  of  the 
will  is  such  that  he  thinks  it  would.  I  said  once,  to  him, 
that  if  you  ever  adopted  a  child  I  would  give  or  throw 
away  every  cent  of  that  money.  I  was  a  fool;  I  can  be 
as  big  a  fool  sometimes  as  any  one  else,  brother."  It 
was  on  the  tip  of  her  tongue  to  add  "yourself  included," 
but  she  checked  it. 

"Now  I've  had  a  good  look  at  her.  You  take  a  good 
look  at  her,  too.  I  know  you  more  than  half  hate  me, 
but  that's  neither  here  nor  there.  Let  the  girl  live  with 
me  and  go  to  school  and  you  can  adopt  her  if  you  like, 
and  I'll  do  all  I  can  in  reason  for  her.  Send  her  here  to 
live  with  the  Biggleses,  and  I'll  keep  my  promise  to 
Judge  Hollaby  I" 


54  MERMAID 

The  tight-lipped  rather  hard-visaged  woman  was 
determined,  but  she  was  curiously  excited,  too.  Her 
rather  flat  chest  rose  and  fell  with  her  breath,  and  her 
breathing  was  almost  audible  in  the  stillness  of  the  room. 
Mermaid,  who  had  finished  her  slices  of  bread,  looked 
with  wonder,  but  with  a  childish  gravity  and  apparently 
a  suspension  of  judgment,  at  this  strange  woman.  The 
little  girl  knew  who  she  was :  she  was  Dad's  sister,  but 
evidently  as  unlike  him  as  possible.  Still,  her  Dad's 
sister  was  entitled  to  respect  and  a  certain  deference,  if 
not  to  affection.  They  were  talking  about  money  and 
Dad  was  angry.  She  had  never  seen  him  so  angry,  not 
even  when  her  youngest  uncle,  Uncle  Joe,  had  capsized 
the  life  boat  in  the  surf. 

John  Smiley  was  indeed  mad  clear  through.  Only 
the  presence  of  Mermaid  restrained  him.  He  stood  up 
in  all  his  height  and  placed  himself  squarely  in  front  of 
his  sister,  his  hands  clenching  and  unclenching  and 
clenching  again. 

"You  can  take  your  money,  Keturah,"  he  said, 
rather  slowly,  "and  give  it  away  or  throw  it  away,  as 
you  please.  I  don't  care  what  you  do  with  it.  But 
there  are  some  things  it  won't  buy  you!" 

"I  know  money  means  nothing  to  you,  John,"  said 
Keturah,  sarcastically,  "but  it  might  mean  something 
to  someone  else.  You're  forgetting  her,  John,  you're 
forgetting  the  girl.  Money  can't  buy  me  some  things 
I  want,  maybe,  and  it  can't  buy  you  some  things  you 


MERMAID  55 

want,  maybe;  but  it  can  buy  her  things  she'll  want. 
You've  no  right  to  throw  away  her  chance!" 

Her  brother,  his  eyes  on  the  child,  seemed  just  per- 
ceptibly to  waver,  and  then  he  burst  out: 

"What's  at  the  bottom  of  this? r  What  are  you  after?" 

Keturah,  calmed  a  little  by  the  success  of  her  argu- 
ment, answered  him: 

"It  might  be  just  wanting  to  have  a  young  and  grow- 
ing creature  around  me,  John!  It  might  be  that  I'm 
not  the  inhuman  creature  you  take  me  for,  that  I'm 
sometimes  lonely;  that  company  would  cheer  me  up; 
that  I  might  even  be  a  softer  body  than  I'm  generally 
considered  to  be  if  I  had  someone  to  talk  to  and  listen 
to  and  work  for  and  with!  It  might  be  all  that,  but  I 
won't  tax  your  powers  of  belief,  brother,  by  asking  you 
to  suppose  so.  No!  The  real  reason  is  simply  this — " 
her  excitement  returned  and  she  appeared  almost 
feminine  in  her  rage — "that  I  am  just  human  enough, 
and  just  woman  enough,  and  just  fool  enough  to  hate 
having  people  say  my  own  brother  couldn't  trust  his 
adopted  daughter  to  live  with  me,  and  had  to  farm  her 
out  to  Susan  and  Henry  Biggies  to  care  for!" 

The  keeper  was  impressed.  There  was  no  denying 
Keturah  spoke  the  truth,  so  far  as  her  own  feeling  was 
concerned.  She,  who  cared  nothing  for  the  good  will 
of  her  neighbours,  for  gossip,  for  backbiting,  for  well- 
earned  dislike  or  worse,  she,  Keturah  Smiley,  with  her 
grasping  ways  and  her  old  clothes  and  her  bitter  tongue, 


56^  MERMAID 

had  a  streak  of  femininity — or  plain  humanity — left 
in  her  after  all  these  years.  She  could  still  care  for 
public  opinion  on  some  things.  They  might  call  her 
stingy,  mean,  heartless  in  many  ways;  they  might  laugh 
at  her,  sneer  at  her,  and  hate  her  for  many  things;  but 
that  they  should  hold  her  in  contempt;  that  they  should 
be  able  to  say  that  her  own  brother  would  not  trust  her 
with  his  little  girl — that  she  dreaded.  The  prospect  of 
it  cut  her  like  a  lash.  She  might  not  care  what  people 
said  about  her  behaviour  toward  John  Smiley's  wife,  for 
John  Smiley's  wife  had  run  away  and  left  him,  taking 
their  baby,  and  so  had  sealed  her  unworthiness.  She 
would  care  what  people  said  about  her  behaviour  toward 
John  Smiley's  daughter,  whether  a  daughter  of  his  own 
blood  or  a  waif  washed  ashore  from  the  ocean.  She 
cared  about  that  now  and  she  would  continue  to  care. 
John  Smiley  saw  this  and  knew  that  he  held  a  hostage 
for  her  good  behaviour.  While  the  feeling  lasted,  any- 
way. .  .  .  He  spoke  gently: 

"Mermaid,  would  you  be  willing  to  live  with  my 
sister  here,  and  go  to  school  ? " 

The  child,  with  the  soberness  that  was  so  unlike  her 
usual  mood,  but  that  had  been  evident  since  she  entered 
the  house,  looked  straight  at  him  and  then  straight  at 
Keturah  Smiley.  She  had  gathered  that  a  matter  of 
importance  was  at  stake.  It  might  be  that  she  could 
help  her  Dad  in  some  way,  doing  this.  She  said  clearly 
and  gravely: 


MERMAID  57 

"Yes,  Dad." 

Keturah  gave  no  demonstration  of  pleasure.  She 
was  not  triumphant,  but  she  seemed  genuinely  relieved. 
She  looked  at  Mermaid  with  a  stern  sort  of  satisfaction, 
and  said  nothing. 

As  they  left  the  house  and  headed  for  the  bay  Mer- 
maid's hand  closed  in  a  tight  pressure  over  the  keeper's. 

"You'll  come  to  see  me  as  often  as  you  are  over,  won't 
you,  Dad?"  she  asked  him,  anxiously. 

His  answer  was  to  lift  her  in  his  arms  and  kiss  her. 


PART  TWO 
I 

ON  THE  morning  of  the  last  day  of  October, 
several  years  after  it  was  decided  that  Mermaid 
should  live  with  Keturah  Smiley  in  Blue  Port, 
a  thin,  pleasant-faced  boy  stopped  in  front  of  Keturah 
Smiley 's  house  and  whistled.  Thereupon  a  girl  of 
eleven  slipped  out  of  the  second  front  door  of  the  house, 
the  front  door  that  faced  the  street  from  a  jog  on  the 
south  side  of  the  building,  and  ran  out  to  meet  him. 
She  was  as  tall  as  the  boy,  and  he  was  thirteen;  she  had 
long  and  slightly  curling  hair  of  so  coppery  a  red  as  al- 
most to  match  the  polished  mahogany  in  Keturah 
Smiley's  tight-shut  front  parlour.  She  had  a  very 
white  skin,  accentuated  by  three  freckles  of  varying 
size  on  and  about  her  straight  little  nose.  The  firm  and 
rounded  chin  was  without  a  dimple,  but  two  dimples 
showed  in  her  cheeks  as  she  smiled,  and  she  was  smiling 
now;  and  her  blue  eyes  were  of  that  brilliant  and  flash- 
ing blue  that  is  to  be  seen,  as  seamen  say,  "off  sound- 
ings." People  who  had  occasion  to  say  much  to  Mary 
Smiley,  whom  everyone  in  Blue  Port  called  Mermaid, 
were  frequently  deceived  by  her  eyes.  The  blue  of 

58 


MERMAID  59 

them  was  so  light  that  it  seemed  shallow,  nothing  more 
than  the  reflection  of  the  day's  sunshine  or  the  quick- 
silvering on  two  round  little  mirrors  reflecting  the  merry 
heart  within  her.  Only  a  mariner,  after  all,  could  be 
expected  to  guess  that  the  very  brightness  and  blueness 
was  a  sign  of  unfathomable  depths. 

"Good  morning,  Richard  Hand,  Jr.,"  said  the  girl. 

"Howdy,  Mermaid,"  retorted  the  boy. 

They  looked  at  each  other  a  moment  and  smiled. 
They  had  become  chums  at  school  on  the  day  they  dis- 
covered an  uncle  in  common.  But  Hosea  Hand  of  the 
Lone  Cove  Coast  Guard  Station,  known  as  Ho  Ha,  was 
Dick  Hand's  real  uncle,  the  brother  of  his  father, 
whereas  he  was  only  Mermaid's  uncle  by  adoption. 

"To-night's  the  night,"  said  the  boy,  amicably  offer- 
ing a  jawbreaker.  Mermaid  accepted  the  candy  and 
said,  with  her  mouth  full,  "I've  unfastened  most  of  'em, 
so  if  the  wind  doesn't  blow  and  make  them  bang,  they'll 
be  all  ready  for  you.  All  you'll  have  to  do  is  unhinge 
them.  Do  you  suppose  you  can  do  that?" 

"Sure,"  said  Dick.  "They're  just  ordinary  shutters. 
Maybe  a  little  rusted." 

"I  oiled  some  of  them  while  she  was  up  street  yester- 
day," the  girl  reassured  him. 

They  were  conspiring,  as  a  Hallowe'en  prank,  to  de- 
tach as  many  shutters  as  possible  from  Keturah  Smiley 's 
tightly  shuttered  house;  and  particularly,  the  shutters 
were  to  be  got  off  the  windows  of  the  sacred,  sealed  front 


60  MERMAID 

parlour.  In  the  three  years  or  more  that  Mermaid  had 
been  living  with  Cap'n  Smiley's  sister  these  shutters 
had  been  unfastened  but  twice  a  year:  for  a  few  hours  in 
spring  and  a  few  hours  in  fall  at  the  time  of  Keturah 
Smiley's  semi-annual  housecleaning.  For  six  months, 
from  spring  to  fall,  and  again  for  six  months,  from  fall 
to  spring,  the  front  parlour  and  most  of  the  other  rooms 
of  the  house  lay  in  darkness.  It  seemed  impossible  that 
anything,  even  dust,  could  enter  there,  but  dust  there 
always  was  when  cleaning  time  came.  At  which  Mer- 
maid used  to  wonder  greatly,  and  Keturah  Smiley  to 
rage. 

"Where  do  you  suppose  it  comes  from?"  the  girl 
would  ask  Miss  Smiley. 

"I  don't  know  where  it  comes  from,  but  I  know  where 
it's  going  to,"  Keturah  replied,  with  such  a  savage 
accent  as  to  make  her  remark  almost  profane. 

"Hell?"  inquired  Mermaid. 

Miss  Smiley  straightened  up  and  looked  at  her 
sternly. 

"I  was  only  asking  a  question,"  explained  Mermaid. 
"I  wouldn't  think  of  saying  'hell*  except  to  ask  a  ques- 
tion. But  any  one  who  says  'hell*  is  asking  a  big  ques- 
tion, isn't  he,  Miss  Smiley?" 

The  funny  child,  as  some  folks  in  Blue  Port  called 
her,  was  not  expressing  her  doubt  for  the  first  time. 
She  had  first  shocked  a  Sunday  School  teacher  with  it. 
The  Sunday  School  teacher  had  spoken  to  Keturah 


MERMAID  61 

Smiley  but  had  regretted  it  immediately,  for  Keturah 
had  said: 

"Well,  what's  the  matter?  Can't  you  convince  her 
there's  a  hell?  That's  your  job!  Why  put  it  on  me?" 

So  now  when  Mermaid  put  the  general  inquiry  as  to 
whether  any  one  saying  "hell"  were  not  asking  a  big 
question,  Keturah  merely  gazed  at  her  darkly  and 
replied : 

"Most  likely  he's  answering  one  about  himself." 

This  tickled  Mermaid.  She  renewed  an  old  con- 
troversy concerning  the  front  parlour. 

"What's  the  use  of  singing,  as  we  do  at  Sunday 
School,  'Let  a  Little  Sunshine  In,'  if  the  shutters  are 
always  fastened?"  she  demanded.  "How  can  you 
expect  me  to  stand  up  and  sing,  *  There's  Sunshine  in 
My  Heart  To-day,'  Miss  Smiley,  when  there's  not 
even  sunshine  in  the  house  ? " 

Keturah  snorted.  "My  heart  is  not  as  big  as  my 
house,"  she  answered.  "Sunshine  in  some  people's 
hearts,  like  sunshine  in  some  people's  houses,  would 
show  up  a  good  deal  that  would  better  be  hidden." 

Mermaid's  blue  eyes  shone,  even  in  the  semi-dark- 
ness. From  the  very  first  she  had  liked  living  with 
her  Dad's  sister,  despite  that  sister's  dark  moods  and 
bleak  rages,  because  Keturah  Smiley  had  a  gift  for 
saying  sharp,  true  things,  and  saying  them  so  you 
remembered  them.  She  had  not  been  unkind  to  the 
girl  and  had  even  shown  a  certain  grudging  liking  for 


62  MERMAID 

her  as  Mermaid,  whether  from  some  natural  gift  or  from 
crossing  blades  in  conversational  fencing,  developed  a 
faculty  for  thinking  her  own  thoughts  and  putting  them 
in  her  own  words — and  more  and  more  the  right  words. 

They  had  many  duels,  and  Keturah  Smiley  did  not 
always  win  them.  She  early  found  in  the  child  a 
streak  of  obstinacy  as  pronounced  as  her  own.  When 
Mermaid  was  convinced  of  her  right  Keturah  might  be 
able  to  silence  her,  but  she  would  not  be  able  to  move 
her.  And  sometimes,  to  her  dumb  astonishment, 
Miss  Smiley  found  herself  giving  ground. 

She  had  had  to  yield  in  quite  a  number  of  instances. 
When  the  eight-year-old  girl  had  come  to  live  in  Blue 
Port  she  had  refused  to  sleep  with  Miss  Smiley,  and 
Keturah  had  been  forced  to  open  a  small  bedroom  for 
her  after  the  night  when  the  child  had  run  out  of  the 
house  and  fastened  herself  in  the  woodshed.  Mermaid 
had  declined  to  walk  two  miles  in  the  noon  recess  of 
school  and  Keturah  found  herself  putting  up  a  lunch 
and  having  the  hot  meal  of  her  day  at  suppertime. 
This  had  irked  her  a  good  deal,  for  Mermaid  would  not 
merely  walk  but  run  two  miles  at  play.  The  girl  re- 
fused outright  to  wear  to  school  a  man's  old  coat  fixed 
over  as  a  jacket.  She  was  as  contrary  as  possible,  it 
seemed  to  Keturah,  about  her  clothes.  After  repeated 
quarrels  on  the  subject,  in  the  last  of  which  Mermaid 
had  threatened  to  appeal  to  her  Dad  the  next  time  he 
came  over  from  the  beach,  Miss  Smiley  gave  in.  For  it 


MERMAID  63 

was  true  that  her  brother  gave  her  money  to  clothe  the 
child,  and  she  knew  him  well  enough  to  know  that  he 
would  make  her  account  for  every  cent  of  it.  Keturah 
Smiley  was  strictly  honest,  but  it  galled  her  to  put 
money  on  any  one's  back.  She  would  not  even  buy  a 
mustard  plaster,  though  she  would  buy  those  mustard 
plasters  which  went  by  the  name  of  first  mortgages — 
when  she  could  get  them  sufficiently  cheap.  But  she  did 
not  starve  the  girl;  she  set  a  good  table.  She  was  stingy 
with  money  and  affection,  but  not  with  food  and  principles. 

In  three  years  she  had  come  to  respect  her  brother's 
adopted  daughter,  and  sometimes  to  wonder  where  the 
girl  got  her  firmness  of  character  and  general  good 
humour.  Keturah  had  never  seen  her  in  tears.  Once, 
when  she  had  been  so  angered  as  to  lift  her  hand  with 
a  threat  to  strike  Mermaid,  the  girl,  without  wincing, 
had  said  quietly: 

"If  you  hit  me  I'll  go  away." 

She  had  not  said  she  would  tell  her  father.  She  had 
never,  in  any  of  their  disputes,  threatened  to  appeal  to 
Cap'n  Smiley  except  in  the  long  dispute  about  what 
she  should  have  to  wear.  And  she  had  explained  that 
at  the  time  by  saying:  "It's  only  that  Dad  is  buying 
them.  If  he  says  you're  right,  that'll  settle  it." 

Keturah  never  reopened  the  argument.  She  put  the 
money  in  the  girl's  hand. 

"All  right,  Missy,  spend  the  last  cent  and  wear 
ribbons!" 


64  MERMAID 

But  Mermaid  had  insisted  on  Miss  Smiley's  going 
with  her  to  the  shop,  and  had  followed  her  advice  on  the 
quality  of  the  goods,  which  Keturah  shredded  with  her 
fingers  along  the  selvage  and  bit,  a  thread  at  a  time, 
with  her  very  sound  (and  very  own)  teeth.  Mermaid 
had  then  made  her  own  selection  of  styles  and  patterns, 
and  on  the  way  home  had  handed  Keturah  $5  with  the 
remark:  "Will  you  send  that  to  the  savings  bank  in 
Patchogue  for  me  ? " 

"It  might  have  been  twice  as  much,"  was  Keturah's 
only  remark. 

"And  it  might  have  been  twice  as  little.  And  I 
might  be  half  as  happy,"  Mermaid  exclaimed.  "Would 
you  be  twice  as  happy  if  you  had  twice  as  much  money, 
Miss  Smiley?" 

"I'd  be  willing  to  try  and  find  out,"  said  Keturah, 
sententiously. 

Mermaid  looked  at  her  speculatively.  "If  there's 
a  chance  of  it,  I'll  help  you  all  I  can  to  get  rich!" 
she  declared  with  so  much  seriousness  that  Keturah 
was  uncertain  how  to  take  her,  and  so  took  her  in 
silence. 

Probably  Mermaid's  words  were  not  really  so  ironical 
as  they  sounded.  The  girl  was  generally  in  earnest 
when  she  was  not  plainly  in  fun;  as  children  usually 
are.  She  had  only  the  vaguest  notion  of  Miss  Smiley's 
means,  and  a  very  vivid  notion  of  her  money-stinting 
ways;  Mermaid,  however,  liked  her  Dad's  sister  in 


MERMAID  65 

spite  of  the  difficulties  of  living  with  her.  Miss  Smiley 
was  "square"  for  all  her  harshness  and  even  hardness; 
she  said  cutting  things  which  were,  however,  never 
mean,  and  seldom  really  unkind.  She  could  be  wrath- 
ful, but  she  did  not  sneer,  and  she  had  only  scorn  for 
those  who  sneered  at  her.  Very  little  mercy,  but  a 
rigid  adherence  to  what  she  thought  just,  distinguished 
Keturah  in  the  girl's  eyes.  And  no  one,  Mermaid  con- 
cluded, could  live  with  Miss  Smiley  and  not  be  struck 
by  the  fact  that  she  was  thoroughly  unhappy.  What 
would  make  her  happy  Mermaid  had  not  the  least  idea; 
but  if  the  child  could  have  given  it  to  the  woman  she 
would  have  done  it,  even  at  some  cost  to  herself.  For 
she  was  a  generous  child  and  she  felt  generosity  all 
about  her,  guarding  her,  befriending  her,  helping  her. 
Her  Dad's  and  her  uncles'  liberality  to  her  always 
touched  her  heart.  She  knew  now,  at  the  age  of  eleven, 
that  her  Dad  was  not  really  her  Dad  and  that  her 
uncles  were  not  related  to  her  by  blood  or  marriage. 
She  knew  she  was  a  nameless  child  of  unknown  lineage, 
washed  ashore  from  the  wreck  of  the  ship  by  whose 
name  she  was  known.  Everyone  except  Miss  Smiley 
called  her  Mermaid;  Miss  Smiley  called  her  Mary 
when  she  called  her  by  name  at  all,  or  "Missy,"  when 
Mermaid  had  irritated  her.  From  the  first  the  girl  had 
called  the  woman  Miss  Smiley;  it  had  never  occurred  to 
her  to  address  her  as  "Aunt  Keturah,"  and  no  one,  not 
even  her  Dad,  had  suggested  it. 


66  MERMAID 

II 

In  the  evening  of  the  day  when  Mermaid  ran  out 
to  meet  young  Dick  Hand  on  the  sidewalk,  sprites 
were  abroad.  As  if  it  had  conspired  with  Dick  and 
Mermaid,  the  wind  refrained  all  day  long  from  blowing 
and  rattling  Keturah  Smiley's  unfastened  shutters, 
and  thus  giving  the  two  youthful  conspirators  away. 
But  at  night  there  came  a  wrenching  sound,  as  if  the 
broadside  of  the  house  were  being  ripped  off.  Keturah 
Smiley  gave  an  exclamation  and  jumped  to  her  feet. 
She  rushed  from  the  room  and  returned  a  moment  later 
carrying  a  pistol. 

Mermaid  saw  it  and  screamed.  Then  she  flung  her- 
self at  the  woman. 

"No,  no!  Miss  Smiley,'*  she  implored  in  little  gasps. 
" It's  only  boys !  It's  only  Hallowe'en ! " 

"Nonsense,"  Keturah  retorted,  holding  the  pistol 
out  of  reach  and  checking  the  girl  with  her  other  hand. 
"I'm  not  going  to  murder  'em.  I'm  only  going  to 
frighten  'em  into  behaving  themselves,  and  leaving  my 
property  alone!" 

She  moved  quickly  to  the  door,  opened  it,  and  fired 
two  shots.  From  the  darkness  came  an  awful  cry,  as 
of  mortal  pain,  followed  by  whimpers  and  the  sound  of 
scurrying  feet.  Keturah  became  utterly  pale,  and  her 
tall  figure  seemed  to  lose  its  rigidity. 

"Do  you  suppose  one  of  those  boys  could  have  been 


MERMAID  67 

perched  in  the  big  maple?"  she  inquired,  faintly.  "I 
shot  in  the  air!" 

There  was  a  great  rushing  about  and  the  woman  and 
girl  finally  went  outside  with  a  lantern.  The  light 
bobbed  about  under  the  maple  and  around  the  house, 
but  no  white,  stricken  face  was  illuminated  by  the  rays; 
they  heard  no  other  cries,  no  moans;  and  except  for  the 
rustle  of  the  fallen  leaves  they  trod  upon  there  was  no 
sound.  Gradually  recovering  herself  in  the  chill  air 
Keturah  strode  indoors,  Mermaid  following  her.  Miss 
Smiley,  as  her  fright  left  her,  became  more  and  more 
indignant. 

"It's  that  Dick  Hand's  boy,"  she  commented. 
"Always  up  to  mischief,  like  his  father.  A  bad  lot, 
the  Hands,  all  except  Hosea,  who's  a  fool." 

At  this  mention  of  her  Uncle  Ho  Mermaid  pricked 
up  her  ears.  Miss  Smiley  was  in  a  talkative  mood, 
seeking  relief  from  her  vexation.  The  girl  could  not 
refrain  from  asking,  "Is  Uncle  Ho  a  fool?" 

"Yes,  he  is,  to  have  let  his  brother  cheat  him  out  of 
his  rightful  property  all  these  years,"  Keturah  Smiley 
told  her. 

Mermaid  felt  a  pang. 

"Uncle  Ho  is  awfully  good  to  me,"  she  said,  sadly. 
"I  can't  have  anything  to  do  with  Dick  if  his  father 
cheated  Uncle  Ho." 

Keturah  gave  her  a  curious  look. 

"Don't  make  other  folks'  quarrels  your  quarrels, 


68  MERMAID 

Mary,"  she  observed.  "And  while  'the  boy  is  father 
to  the  man,'  Dick  Hand's  boy  may  be  a  better  man  than 
his  father." 

"I  won't  be  friends  with  Dick  if  his  father  cheated 
Uncle  Ho,"  the  girl  persisted. 

"You  go  on  being  friends  with  Dick,"  Keturah  ad- 
vised her,  "and  leave  me  to  deal  with  his  father." 

A  strange,  grim  expression  was  on  her  face,  an 
expression  which  had  more  of  satisfaction  in  it  than 
Mermaid  had  ever  observed  before,  an  expression  that 
was  almost  happy,  and  that  was  not  unknown  in  Blue 
Port.  The  senior  Richard  Hand  had  seen  it  on  the 
day  when  he  first  came  to  Keturah  Smiley  to  borrow 
money.  His  brother,  Hosea  Hand,  had  never  wit- 
nessed it;  and  Hosea  Hand  thought  he  knew  every 
shade  of  Keturah  Smiley's  countenance — a  countenance 
that  was  singularly  inapt  at  denoting  the  finer  shades  of 
feeling.  For  Hosea  Hand  had  even  seen  a  look  of 
tenderness  in  those  sharp  eyes;  he  had  seen  that  mouth, 
so  firm  at  the  corners,  relax  into  smiles  at  the  smile  he 
gave  her.  Once  upon  a  time  Hosea  Hand  had  been 
young,  and  once  upon  a  time  Keturah  Smiley  had  been 
young,  and  it  was  about  that  time  that  Hosea  Hand's 
brother — of  whom  a  reasonable  doubt  might  be  enter- 
tained as  to  whether  he  had  ever  been  young  at  ail- 
that  Dick  Hand,  the  older,  had  come  between  two 
lovers. 

In  the  morning  three  shutters  were  gone  from  the 


MERMAID  69 

front  parlour  windows  and  the  streaming  sunshine  had 
already,  according  to  Keturah  Smiley's  emphatic  pro- 
nouncement, begun  to  fade  the  old  rose  carpet.  What 
was  worse,  the  shutters  could  not  be  found,  though 
what  appeared  to  be  their  ashes  lay,  still  smouldering, 
in  a  lot  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away.  Keturah  poked 
through  the  black  remains  and  fished  out  a  peculiarly 
shaped  hinge,  adding  to  her  observations  of  the  evening 
before  on  the  badness  of  the  Hands.  But  she  expressed 
no  intention  of  putting  her  hand  in  her  pocket  to  buy 
new  window  coverings.  With  a  wrench  that  bade 
fair  to  take  them  from  their  rollers  she  pulled  down 
the  parlour  shades.  Yet  a  spell  had  been  broken.  The 
sacred  room  could  never  regain  its  dark  repose.  Mer- 
maid, dusting  the  mahogany  "deacon's  chairs,"  ven- 
tured discreetly  to  raise  the  shades  a  little  at  the  bottom, 
and  gradually  they  rose  higher  and  higher  until  they 
shielded  the  upper  sashes  only.  An  agreeable  light 
streamed  into  the  room  and  lit  up  the  curios  brought 
back  from  his  sea  voyages  by  Captain  John  Hawkins, 
husband  of  Keturah  Hawkins  and  master  of  the  clipper 
ship  China  Castle,  curios  that  Keturah  Smiley  had  in- 
herited from  Keturah  Hawkins  along  with  the  house 
and  her  aunt's  land  and  money.  Though  not  more 
wonderful  than  the  full-rigged  ship  which  Uncle  Ho  had 
carved  in  the  glass  bottle,  these  heirlooms  were  per- 
ceptibly more  precious. 

There  was  a  jade  Buddha  which,  on  its  first  appear- 


70  MERMAID 

ance  in  Blue  Port  fifty  years  earlier,  had  administered  its 
shock  to  the  Christian  ladies  of  the  Missionary  Society, 
and  had  long  been  retired  into  oblivion.  There  was 
a  collection  of  swords  and  cutlasses  with  which  Ke- 
turah  Smiley  might  have  defended  herself  against  all 
Blue  Port  advancing  against  her.  On  a  mantel  were 
ivory  ornaments,  intricately  carved,  and  on  either 
side  of  the  fireplace  were  mammoth  elephants'  tusks. 
Gold  gleamed  from  damascened  swords;  silver  bands 
shone  more  coldly  from  the  tusks;  some  copper  vessels 
on  the  floor  dully  reflected  the  unaccustomed  day- 
light; but  the  precious  stones  which  had  once  en- 
hanced the  beauty  of  these  relics  of  far  ports  had  been 
removed  from  their  settings  and  their  fires  smothered 
forever  in  the  feathers  of  a  pillow  on  Keturah  Smiley 's 
four-poster  bed. 

Mermaid  used  to  look  at  the  empty  sockets  and 
express  sorrow  that  all  these  must  once  have  held 
jewels  which  had  been  lost.  She  took  an  imaginative 
joy  in  restoring  them,  in  her  mind's  eye,  to  their  rightful 
places,  and  in  deciding  just  what  gem  belonged  with 
every  background.  She  had  a  sense  in  these  matters, 
and  she  never  enshrined  a  diamond  where  a  ruby 
should  have  been  bleeding. 

Of  the  permanent  results  of  their  Hallowe'en  pranks 
she  apprised  thirteen-year-old  Dick  Hand  when  they 
met  at  school.  She  told  him  of  some  of  the  treasures 
brought  to  light,  but  she  said  nothing  of  the  value  of 


MERMAID  71 

them  and  she  never  spoke  of  the  vanished  jewels.  She 
was  curious,  however,  about  the  cry  of  pain  and  the 
whimpering  that  had  frightened  Miss  Smiley  on  the 
night  of  the  raid.  Dick,  who  was  a  merry  boy,  laughed. 
"Oh,  we  knew  she'd  fire  a  pistol  in  the  air;  she's  done 
it  before.  I  just  made  those  noises  to  scare  her,"  he 
explained. 

Then,  as  Mermaid  laughed  with  him,  the  boy  became 
suddenly  earnest.  He  looked  at  the  girl  with  an  air  of 
surprise. 

"Say,  Mermaid,  you're  an  awful  nice  girl,"  he  said, 
and  looking  at  her  he  slowly  reddened.  In  a  mo- 
ment he  recovered  himself  and  finished  successfully, 
"An  awful  nice  girl  to  be  living  with  that — that — old 
cat!" 

Mermaid  was  really  indignant.  She  told  him  so,  and 
then  she  left  him,  which  was  not  what  he  wanted  at  all. 
He  hardly  knew  what  he  wanted.  As  for  Mermaid,  she 
was  too  incensed  to  be  observant;  she  was  certainly  not 
aware  that  he  wanted  anything.  The  boy  stood  look- 
ing after  her  faintly  dismayed,  but  a  good  deal  more 
perplexed.  Then  he  scratched  his  head,  gave  a  whistle 
to  another  boy  across  the  street,  and  sang  out:  "Hey, 
Tom!  Did  you  find  out  who  that  new  feller  is  on  your 
street  ? " 

Young  Tom  Lupton,  son  of  Tom  Lupton  of  the  Lone 
Cove  Coast  Guard  Station,  and  therefore  one  of  Mer- 
maid's cousins  by  courtesy  in  the  queer  relationships 


72  MERMAID 

that  sprang  out  of  her  rescue  from  the  surf,  waggled  his 
head. 

"C'm  over  and  I'll  tell  you  all  about  him,"  he  invited. 

Dick  crossed  the  street  and  punched  Tom's  head  in  a 
comradely  fashion.  They  clinched,  broke  away,  sparred 
a  little,  and  then  stopped,  breathless  and  satisfied. 

"Who  is  he?" 

"Search  me,"  replied  Tom  Lupton  2nd,  less  in  the 
voice  of  entreaty  than  with  the  air  of  a  man  making  a 
succinct  statement.  "  I  tried  to  talk  to  him  to-day  over 
the  fence  and  the  guy  only  said  'Yes'  and  *No'  to 
ever'thing.  I  got  his  name — that  Guy." 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Dick,  innocently. 

"Guy,"  answered  Tom.  "Ow!"  He  doubled  over  to 
protect  his  ribs  from  the  impatient  Mr.  Hand.  "I 
told  yuh,  Guy!  Guy!  His  name  is  Guy!  Like — like 
'Guy  Mannering,' "  explained  Mr.  Lupton,  who  was 
fifteen  and  didn't  look  it,  and  was  taking  English  I  in 
Patchogue  High  School,  and  didn't  speak  it. 

"Mannering,  what  sort  of  a  name  is  that  ? "  demanded 
Mr.  Hand. 

"It  isn't  Mannering,  it's  Vanton,"  said  Tom,  wisely 
not  trying  to  explain.  Whereupon  Mr.  Hand,  remark- 
ing, "You  said  it  was  Mannering,  I'll  Mannering  you!" 
fell  upon  him  afresh  and  they  punched  each  other 
happily  for  several  minutes  until  a  shadow  fell  athwart 
them. 

Stopping  to  see  who  approached,  they  were  almost 


MERMAID  73 

borne  down  by  a  huge,  elderly  man  who  walked  with  a 
peculiar  tread,  planting  his  feet  firmly  at  each  step  and 
taking  short  steps.  His  preoccupied  and  lordly  ex- 
pression took  no  cognizance  of  the  young  men  as  he 
went  through  them,  like  a  massive  keel  cutting  in  two  a 
couple  of  sportive  little  waves. 

Immense  sidewhiskers,  like  studding  sails,  expanding 
the  spread  of  his  ample  countenance,  fluttered  in  the 
breeze.  His  weathered  cheeks  looked  hard  as  the  sides 
of  a  steel  ship ;  there  was  a  stony,  distant  stare  in  his  eyes, 
wrinkled  at  their  corners.  He  wore  a  coat  cut  like  a 
huge  boy's  reefer;  there  were  brass  buttons  on  it  and  his 
hands  were  thrust  in  the  pockets. 

The  boys  gazed  at  his  wake,  and  when  he  was  out  of 
all  possible  hearing  young  Mr.  Lupton  nudged  his  com- 
panion. 

"That's  him!"  he  exclaimed.  "That's  Captain 
Vanton,  this  Guy's  father.  You  know  they  say  he  was 
master  of  a  three  skysail-yarder  that  made  a  passage 
from  New  York  to  Honolulu  in  90  days.  Doesn't  he 
look  like  a  Damn-Your-Eyes?" 

Dick  agreed. 

"A  regular  brute!"  ejaculated  Tom.  "Must  have 
wads  of  money.  Built  that  house  and  it's  finished  in 
mahogany  and  teakwood  like  a  ship's  cabin — cost  a 
fortune!  He  must  have  been  in  the  slave  trade,  eh? 
Where  does  a  sea  captain  get  all  that  money,  even  if  he's 
been  master  of  a  clipper  ship?" 


74  MERMAID 

Dick,  who  recked  naught  of  the  sea  and  cared  less, 
didn't  know. 

"That  kid  of  his,"  the  garrulous  Tom  continued, 
"he's  a  regular  sissy.  I  s'pose  his  father  frightens  the 
life  out  of  him.  Probably  flogs  him  with  a  rope's  end 
before  breakfast." 

"Is  he  coming  to  school?"  inquired  young  Mr.  Hand. 

"Naw.  Leastways,  I  don't  believe  so,"  Tom  re- 
sponded. "He'd  been  by  this  time.  They  were  here 
before  school  started.  Why,  it's  months  since  they 
moved  into  that  house,  and  none  of  'em  has  ever  so 
much  as  spoke  to  anybody  in  Blue  Port.  They  eat 
their  meals  at  the  Roncador  House,  but  they  never  go 
anywhere.  Not  evenj  to  church." 

Everybody  went  to  church  in  Blue  Port.  The  in- 
formation was  astounding.  The  two  boys  agreed  that 
a  real  mystery  invested  the  Vantons;  and  as  for  Captain 
Vanton,  he  must  have  done  something  hellish  to  have  so 
much  money  and  hold  so  aloof  and  walk  down  Main 
Street  as  if  it  were  his  sacred  quarterdeck  on  the  queenly 
China  Castle. 

Ill 

The  China  Castle  !  She  had  been  a  wonderful  ship 
in  her  day,  a  Bath-built  clipper.  John  Hawkins,  hus- 
band of  Keturah  Hawkins,  uncle  by  marriage  of  Ke- 
turah  Smiley,  had  been  the  first  master  of  her;  Captain 
Vanton  had  come  to  her  cabin  much  later,  in  the  days  of 


MERMAID  75 

her  decline.  It  was  John  Hawkins  and  not  Buel  Vanton 
who  had  made  the  passage  from  New  York  to  Honolulu 
in  90  days.  Young  Tom  Lupton  had  not  known  or  re- 
membered the  name  of  the  three  skysail-yarder  whose 
glory  descended  upon  every  master  who  trod  her 
quarterdeck.  Only  a  few  persons  in  Blue  Port,  indeed, 
recalled  anything  when  they  heard  that  Captain  Vanton 
had  been  master  of  the  China  Castle.  "  Eh  ? "  said  these 
old  fogies  to  each  other.  "She  was  John  Hawkins's 
ship!"  This  Captain  Vanton  could  not,  of  course,  have 
been  the  mariner  that  John  Hawkins  was,  for  Captain 
John  had  sailed  his  fine,  fast  vessel  to  California,  making 
quick  passages,  and  afterward  took  her  into  the  China 
trade  for  which  she  had  been  built.  Nevertheless,  out 
of  a  sense  of  politeness,  these  oldtimers  had,  on  one 
occasion  or  another,  attempted  to  address  Captain 
Vanton;  it  was  a  sort  of  duty  to  let  him  know  that  he 
was  not  a  total  stranger  in  Blue  Port.  No  man  could 
have  a  better  sponsor  than  a  ship  John  Hawkins  had 
sailed.  They  were  frozen  by  Captain  Vanton's  hard 
stare.  At  the  mention  of  the  China  Castle  he  merely 
looked  through  their  eyes  and  out  the  backs  of  their 
heads  and  into  the  bar  of  the  Roncador  House.  At 
the  various  polite  and  hearty  references  to  "Cap'n 
John  Hawkins"  he  had  but  one  course  of  behaviour: 
uttering  a  loud  "Humph!"  he  would  turn  squarely  on 
his  heel,  and  lurch  away  evenly  in  the  opposite  direc- 
tion. 


76  MERMAID 

An  exasperating  man;  did  he  think  himself  above 
everybody  ashore,  as  if  he  were  still  the  master  of  a 
vessel?  Be  hornswoggled  if  wed  go  out  of  our  way 
again  to  speak  to  such  an  uncivil  devil.  He  could  take 
his  money  and  his  pindling  boy  and  his  sick  wife — she 
always  appeared  to  be  just  convalescing — and  shut  him- 
self up  in  his  expensive  house  and  be  hanged  to  him. 
Why,  Cap'n  John  Hawkins! — and  then  the  oldtimers 
would  go  off  into  reminiscences  all  wool,  a  yard  wide  and 
the  afternoon  long,  sitting  about  the  stove  in  the  store 
and  postoffice  in  winter  or  in  back-tilted  chairs  on  the 
store  porch  in  summer.  When  Captain  Vanton  came  in 
for  his  mail  there  was  a  momentary  silence,  faces  were 
carefully  averted,  and  tobacco  juice  was  sprinkled  on 
the  floor. 

Buel  Vanton  never  noticed  the  idlers.  He  never 
noticed  anybody.  Therefore  Mermaid  was  stricken 
almost  mute  with  astonishment  one  day  when,  answer- 
ing a  peremptory  rap  at  the  door,  not  the  side  front  door, 
but  the  frontest  front  door  leading  into  the  small  hall 
that  gave  into  the  front  parlour,  she  opened  it  to  find  the 
bulky  form  of  Captain  Vanton  standing  before  her.  As 
usual  he  did  not  look  at  her,  but  merely  asked  in  a  loud, 
hard  voice  if  this  had  been  John  Hawkins's  house. 
Mermaid  affirmed  it;  he  then  asked  if  her  mother  were 
in. 

"Miss  Smiley  is  in.  She  is  not  my  mother.  I  just 
live  with  her,"  the  girl  replied.  Captain  Vanton  made 


MERMAID  77 

no  response,  but  as  he  continued  to  stand  there  she 
added,  "I  will  call  her." 

She  did  not  invite  him  to  enter,  and  as  she  went  in 
search  of  Keturah  Smiley  she  murmured  to  herself, 
"Rude  old  man!  She  can  ask  him  in,  I  won't!" 

Keturah  Smiley,  summoned,  confronted  the  visitor 
and  asked  abruptly,  "You  wish  to  see  me?" 

Captain  Vanton  did  not  indicate  whether  he  did  or 
not.  His  eyes  dropped  for  the  merest  instant  and  he 
replied:  "I  was  told  this  was  John  Hawkins's  house." 

"It  was  in  his  lifetime,"  said  Keturah,  shortly.  "He 
was  my  uncle,"  she  added.  "Mother's  sister's  hus- 
band." 

Captain  Vanton  made  no  reply.  He  said,  as  if  it 
were  relevant:  "I  commanded  the  China  Castle  after  he 
left  her.  Some  time  after,"  he  added.  "Did  he  ever 
speak  of  a  man  named  King?"  And  now  he  looked 
Keturah  Smiley  straight  in  the  eyes.  Keturah  gave  his 
stare  back. 

"King?"  she  rasped.  "I  can't  say  he  did,  and  I 
can't  say  he  didn't.  What  King?" 

"First  officer,  Boston  to  Shanghai,  third  voyage," 
answered  Buel  Vanton  in  his  hard,  uninflected  tones. 
"Triced  up  by  the  thumbs  and  flogged  before  the  crew 
by  Captain  Hawkins's  orders.  First  officer,  too!  In- 
sulted Mrs.  Hawkins." 

Keturah  Smiley's  face  settled  into  its  severest  lines. 

"You're  likely  mistaken,"  she  said  with  a  bite  in  her 


78  MERMAID 

words.     "Captain  Hawkins  would  never  have  flogged  a 
man  for  that:  he'd  have  killed  him!" 

"Did  almost.  Killing  too  easy.  Better  to  flog. 
Torture,"  declared  Buel  Vanton,  reflectively.  "After- 
ward Captain  King.  Knew  him  in  San  Francisco. 
Retired.  Devil.  Swore  he'd  get  even.  Then  Captain 
Hawkins  died.  King  heard  of  it.  Near  crazy.  I've 
come  to  tell  you  he's  dead ! " 

"Dead?"  echoed  Keturah  Smiley,  who  had  become 
slightly  confused  by  the  visitor's  elliptical  language. 
"Captain  Hawkins  is  dead.  Of  course  he's  dead,  what 
of  it?" 

"Not  Hawkins,  King! "  barked  Captain  Vanton  from 
his  impassive  face  framed  in  the  spreading  sidewhiskers. 
"  He's  done  you  all  the  harm  he  ever  will.  All  of  you. 
He's  dead.  'The  King  is  dead.  Long  live  the  King!" 
He  uttered  a  harsh  sound,  a  bitter  laugh.  Turning 
squarely  about  he  started  off  the  porch  and  away  from 
the  house.  Keturah  Smiley,  who  had  been  eyeing  him 
with  amazement,  suddenly  called  after  him,  "How  do 
you  know  he's  dead?" 

Captain  Vanton  half  turned  his  head. 

"Killed  him  myself,"  he  declared  abruptly,  and 
lurched  away. 

IV 

Standing  well  back  in  the  hall  Mermaid  had  heard 
this  extraordinary  conversation.  Now  she  slipped  into 


MERMAID  79 

the  front  parlour  ahead  of  Miss  Smiley,  who  stood, 
apparently  forgetful  or  stunned,  for  two  or  three 
minutes  in  the  open  doorway.  Then  she  closed  the 
door  with  a  bang,  entered  the  front  parlour,  and  went 
through  it  into  the  living  room.  She  stood  before  the 
stove  a  moment,  warming  her  hands.  Her  face  was 
working  and  her  mouth  was  twisting,  but  her  lips  re- 
mained closed.  Mermaid  looked  at  her  with  deep 
sympathy  and  with  a  certain  terror  at  the  memory  of 
what  she  had  just  heard.  Neither  emotion  drowned  the 
awful  curiosity  within  the  girl  to  know  what  it  had  all 
been  about.  But  she  dared  not  ask  questions. 

In  silence  the  two  got  their  supper,  in  silence  they  ate 
it.  Once  Keturah  Smiley  sighed,  once  she  spoke,  but 
only  to  say:  "Thank  the  Lord,  John  will  be  coming  over 
to-morrow!" 

Mermaid,  who  had  been  looking  forward  to  this  visit 
of  her  Dad,  thinking  he  might  give  her  a  scooter  ride  on 
the  smoothly  frozen  bay,  said:  "How  rich  do  you  sup- 
pose Cap'n  Vanton  is,  Miss  Smiley?" 

Keturah  looked  at  her  absently. 

"Not  rich  enough  to  buy  an  easy  conscience,  proba- 
bly," she  replied,  drily.  Mermaid  hesitated,  and  then 
took  her  courage  in  both  hands. 

"Miss  Smiley,  I  heard  some  of  what  he  said.  I — I 
guess  I  heard  most  of  it,"  she  said. 

Keturah  showed  neither  surprise  nor  anger.  She 
looked  at  Mermaid  attentively  and  there  was  a  flicker  of 


8o  MERMAID 

interest  in  her  eyes  as  she  asked:  "Well,  and  what  did 
you  make  of  it?" 

"He  said  he'd  killed  a  Captain  King!"  the  girl  blurted 
out.  "How  could  he  do  that  and  not  be  in  jail  for  it?" 

"Maybe  he  has  been,"  Keturah  suggested. 

"But  then  how  could  he  be  so  rich?"  persisted  Mer- 
maid. 

"Maybe  it  isn't  his  money,"  Miss  Smiley  replied. 

"It  seems  to  be  now."  Mermaid  rested  on  the  fact, 
solidly  buttressed  by  all  appearances. 

"So  it  does,"  agreed  the  woman. 

But  she  was  at  some  pains,  the  next  day,  to  talk  to  her 
brother  only  after  Mermaid  had  had  her  scooter  ride  and 
had  gone  out  to  do  errands  at  the  store. 

"When  he  first  spoke  of  'a  man  named  King,'"  Ke- 
turah explained  to  John  Smiley,  "I  couldn't  make  the 
connection.  Then  I  remembered  the  entry  about  the 
flogging  in  Uncle  John's  log  of  that  passage.  Aunt 
Keturah  was  with  him  on  that  voyage.  The  log  only 
says  that  the  mate  refused  to  obey  orders.  I  never 
heard  Aunt  Keturah  utter  a  word  of  such  a  thing,  but 
it's  perfectly  possible;  more  than  that,  it's  likely. 
Mates,  first  mates,  weren't  flogged  before  the  crew  for 
insubordination.  There  was  something  personal,  I 
suspect.  As  for  his — this  fellow's — having  killed  King, 
that's  neither  here  nor  there  with  us.  He  said  King  had 
done  us  all  the  harm  he  ever  would,  but  what  harm  did 
he  ever  do?  Uncle  John  and  Aunt  Keturah  lived  to  a 


MERMAID  81 

peaceful  old  age  and  died  comfortably  in  their  beds — 
leastways,  I  suppose  they  were  as  comfortable  as  a  per- 
son can  be  dying." 

But  the  "Captain  King"  struck  a  full  chord  of 
memory  in  John  Smiley's  breast. 

"Don't  you  remember?"  he  cried.  "That  miserable 
devil  we  found  on  the  beach  after  the  wreck  of  the  Mer- 
maid, one  of  the  crew?  Remember  I  told  you  I  sat  up 
all  night  with  him  and  that  I  made  out  from  his  deliri- 
ous talking  that  a  'Captain  King'  had  had  the  little 
girl,  and  had  been  sending  her  back  to  someone?  He 
wanted  to  keep  himself  out  of  it  and  he  wanted  'forgive- 
ness'— at  any  rate,  that  was  one  word  in  the  letter  we 
found  in  the  pocket  of  the  Mermaid* 's  skipper."  He  was 
deep  in  the  painful  process  of  recollection.  "But  still 
I  can't  make  head  nor  tail  of  it,"  he  confessed.  "This 
man  King  may  have  hated  John  Hawkins  and  been 
willing  to  do  anything  he  could  to  hurt  him,  he  may 
have  hated  Aunt  Keturah,  but  they're  dead  and  that's 
an  end  of  them!  As  for  his  harming  us,  he  never  could 
have  had  a  chance.  And  as  he's  dead  he'll  never  get 
one.  And  that's  an  end  of  him  !  Captain  Vanton  says 
he  killed  him,  and  probably  if  he  did  it  was  a  good  job. 
He  must  have  thought  that  King  had  bothered  us  some- 
how. Thoughtful  of  him  to  come  and  assure  us  that 
the  dirty  dog's  dead.  I  suppose,"  he  continued,  re- 
flectively, "I  might  go  see  him  and  talk  with  him.  Per- 
haps he  may  have  learned  something  from  King  that 


82  .    MERMAID 

will  set  us  on  the  track  of  Mermaid's  people.  I'll 
go!" 

Keturah  was  inclined  to  dissuade  him. 

"He  thinks,"  she  said,  with  her  usual  shrewdness, 
"that  we  know  something  we  don't  know,  and  that  he 
does  know.  Or  else,"  she  wavered,  "he's  after  some- 
thing, and  if  we  go  after  him  we'll  be  playing  right  into 

his  hands.  I  don't  know "  She  came  to  a  dead  stop 

for  a  moment,  and  a  rare  look  of  uncertainty,  almost 
of  panic,  appeared  in  her  eyes.  "  Better  keep  away,  John. 
Better  wait  and  see  what  he  does.  If  he  comes  around 
here  bragging  of  having  killed  another  man  I'll  ask  him 
for  the  death  certificate."  She  had  recovered  her  usual 
poise.  And  when  her  brother  repeated  his  intention 
of  calling  on  Captain  Vanton  she  merely  remarked : 

"Well,  I  sha'n't  mind  hearing  how  you're  received." 

The  interview  between  Captain  Vanton  and  John 
Smiley  was  extremely  short  and,  to  the  keeper  of  the 
Lone  Cove  Coast  Guard  Station,  hopelessly  baffling. 
Captain  Vanton,  with  more  courtesy  than  Keturah  had 
shown  him,  ushered  her  brother  into  a  room  which  re- 
sembled nothing  so  much  as  a  ship's  cabin.  He  seated 
his  visitor,  but  himself  paced  up  and  down  the  floor,  a 
very  fine  floor  which  seemed  to  have  been  freshly 
scrubbed  and  holystoned  until  it  was  of  the  whiteness  of 
an  afterdeck.  Cap'n  Smiley  came  to  the  point  at  once. 

"The  little  girl  who  lives  with  my  sister  is  my  adopted 
daughter,"  he  began.  "She  was  rescued  from  the 


MERMAID  83 

wreck  of  the  Mermaid."  He  went  on  to  tell  of  the  few 
decipherable  words  in  the  letter  found  on  the  body  of 
the  Mermaid's  skipper;  then  of  the  delirious  sailor  who 
had  talked  of  "Captain  King."  Captain  Vanton 
paced  to  and  fro  in  perfect  silence.  He  seemed  not  to 
be  paying  attention,  but  to  be  thinking. 

"Anything  you  may  have  learned  that  would  help  us 

to  find  out  the  child's  identity "  John  Smiley 

began,  and  then  he  stopped  with  a  sudden  sinking  of  the 
heart.  If  Mermaid's  identity  were  established  he 
would  probably  lose  her!  The  thought  gave  him, 
as  he  afterward  put  it,  "a  turn."  He  never  fin- 
ished his  sentence,  and  while  he  was  recovering  himself 
Captain  Vanton  uttered  his  first  words  of  the  conver- 
sation. 

"I  know — knew  of — the  child,"  he  muttered.  "He 
sent  her  back.  Yes.  No,  I  don't  know  anything  that 
would  make  matters  any  better  than  they  are."  He 
did  not  look  through  Cap'n  Smiley,  as  was  his  custom- 
ary way  with  people,  but  seemed  to  avoid  his  eye. 
He  frowned  at  the  floor  as  he  might  have  frowned  at  the 
deck  if  the  holystoning  and  cleaning  had  not  been 
thorough.  John  Smiley,  rising,  thanked  him  and  took 
his  departure.  The  sense  of  relief  at  the  thought  that 
Mermaid  would  not  be  taken  from  him  was  so  strong 
that  he  felt  not  in  the  least  disappointed,  but  really 
grateful  for  Vanton 's  reticence.  Captain  Vanton  may 
even  have  thought  him  effusive  in  his  thanks.  Keturah 


84  MERMAID 

Smiley  heard  her  brother's  report  of  his  failure  with 
calmness. 

"Did  he  wear  the  scalp  at  his  belt?"  she  inquired. 

Mermaid  appearing,  they  all  sat  down  and  had  a  hot 
supper  after  which  Cap'n  Smiley  and  Mermaid  played 
checkers  and  Keturah  walked  about  with  a  yardstick  in 
an  effort  to  decide  where  she  would  have  three  shelves 
put  up.  She  had  a  passion  for  shelves  and  drawers. 

"What  are  these  shelves  to  be  for,  Miss  Smiley?" 
asked  Mermaid,  looking  up  from  the  board  after  she  had 
beat  her  Dad  for  the  third  time. 

"Medicine,  most  like,"  Keturah,  told  her. 

"Why  not  for  our  books  ? "  Mermaid  suggested. 

"Bottles  break,"  said  Keturah,  concisely.  "Do 
you  prefer  books  to  medicine  ?  Not  when  you're  sick, 
I'll  warrant!" 

"Yes,  I  do,"  Mermaid  insisted,  and  then  she  ex- 
plained to  her  antagonist  with  a  smile: 

"You  see,  Dad,  it's  because — it's  because  books  can 
make  you  happy  while  you're  dying,  but  medicine  can 
only  make  you  miserable  while  you're  getting  well! " 

Keturah  gave  the  girl  a  look  in  which  a  skilled 
observer  might  have  detected  something  resembling 
admiration. 

"What  an  upside-down  mind  you  have,  child!"  she 
said.  "But  then,"  she  allowed,  "you  use  it  and  do 
your  own  thinking ! " 

"I  wish  she'd  do  some  of  my  thinking,"  exclaimed 


MERMAID  85 

Cap'n  Smiley,  looking  ruefully  at  the  checkerboard. 
"Appears  to  me  as  if  I  had  been  out-thunk  again!" 
He  liked  the  defeated,  "ker-plunk"  sound  of  this  past 
participle  of  his  invention,  and  always  used  it  to  de- 
scribe Mermaid's  victories. 

Mermaid  got  up,  went  to  the  pantry,  came  back  with 
a  pan  of  sugared  crullers,  offered  her  Dad  one,  took 
one  herself,  put  up  the  pan,  and  then  cuddled  con- 
tentedly against  his  arm.  "I  made  them  myself,"  she 
murmured. 

Her  Dad  stroked  her  hair.  It  was  remarkably  like 
the  colour  his  own  had  been  before  thirty  years  of  beach 
sunshine — and  other  things — had  bleached  the  colour 
out  of  it. 

"What  are  you  going  to  be  when  you  grow  up, 
Mermaid?"  he  asked,  dreamily. 

"I  shall  try  to  make  you  a  good  home  and  keep  you 
happy,"  she  assured  him.  "I'm  knitting  the  slippers 
you'll  wear,  now." 

They  hugged  each  other  in  anticipation  of  their 
peaceful  old  age  together,  and  went  to  bed. 

V 

Sometimes  it  isn't  what  you  don't  know  about  people 
but  what  you  do  know  that  makes  them  mysterious,  as 
Mermaid  once  said. 

She  did  not  say  it  respecting  the  senior  Dick  Hand 
but  she  might  well  have  done  so.  Richard  Hand 


86  MERMAID 

First  was  not  only  his  proper  designation  but  his  motto, 
his  war-cry,  his  watchword,  and  his  slogan.  Richard 
Hand  first  and  everybody  else  nowhere,  just  about 
summed  up  the  golden  rule  in  Blue  Port.  Richard 
made  the  rule  and  Blue  Port  lived  up  to  it. 

If  Blue  Port  had  been  a  pretty  good-sized  town,  like 
near-by  Patchogue,  with  a  couple  of  mills,  two  or  three 
banks,  an  electric  light  company,  and  other  rudiments 
of  an  American  municipality,  Dick  Hand  would  have 
owned  them  all — not  outright,  of  course,  but  as  the 
heaviest  shareholder  and  the  preferred  creditor.  But 
Blue  Port  had  none  of  these  things.  Blue  Port  had  only 
a  two-three  of  stores,  a  justice  of  the  peace  (Judge 
Hollaby),  an  unorganized  oyster  industry,  a  faded  little 
railroad  station,  and  a  postofiice.  Nearly  all  the  people 
in  Blue  Port  got  their  living  on  or  from  the  Great 
South  Bay.  They  went  oystering,  fishing,  eeling, 
clamming,  duck  shooting.  They  kept,  some  of  them,  a 
cow  and  a  few  pigs;  all  of  them  raised  vegetables.  Thus 
there  "was  plenty  to  eat.  There  was  not  so  much  to 
wear,  but  there  was  enough.  As  for  making  money, 
mostly  no  one  made  any  money.  There  was  no  way  to. 
A  few  hundred  dollars  in  cash,  to  buy  a  few  clothes  and 
pay,  perhaps,  a  low  rent,  was  enough  for  a  whole 
family  from  one  year's  end  to  the  other.  Such  a  place 
might  be  considered,  and  rightly,  to  offer  very  restricted 
opportunities  for  the  capitalist,  but  Dick  Hand  made 
it  do. 


MERMAID  87 

He  was  not  a  daring  financier.  For  years  he  had 
lived  on  a  farm  in  the  middle  of  Long  Island,  a  farm  in 
semi-hilly  country,  the  farm  left  him  by  his  father.  It 
had  to  be  worked  hard,  and  when,  after  some  dozen 
years  of  labour,  the  chance  came  to  Dick  Hand  to  sell 
it  at  a  fabulous  figure,  he  lost  no  time  in  doing  so.  A 
wealthy  New  Yorker  had  come  along  and  bought  the 
place  simply  because  he  saw  in  the  lie  of  the  land  pos- 
sibilities for  a  corkingly  good  private  golf  course.  The 
course  was  never  laid  out.  The  New  Yorker  died 
while  still  quarrelling  with  his  architect  over  the  plans 
for  a  $200,000  summer  "cottage,"  and  his  executors 
and  heirs  looked  ruefully  at  the  large  tract  of  land 
which  had  been  his  latest  whim  and  which  was  difficult 
to  "turn  over" — even  with  a  plough.  But  Dick  Hand 
had  received  $20,000  in  cold  cash  for  200  acres.  He 
was  satisfied. 

It  was  an  impressive  lot  of  money.  It  would  have 
been  greeted  respectfully  in  Patchogue,  and  even  in 
larger  places.  But  the  sudden  possession  of  so  much 
riches  made  Mr.  Hand  more  cautious  than  ever.  How 
to  make  it  grow  fastest  ? 

He  had  had  enough  of  land.  By  most  wonderful 
fortune,  he  had  been  enabled  to  convert  land  into 
money.  It  was  a  miracle.  Water  had  been  turned 
into  wine;  he  would  not  depend  upon  it  happening 
again.  His  wife,  who  had  always  been  submissive  to 
him,  ventured  a  single  suggestion : 


88  MERMAID 

"Now  would  be  a  good  time  to  straighten  out  matters 
with  Hosea,"  she  remarked.  Dick  Hand  looked  at 
her  coldly.  She  went  on,  uncomfortably:  "I  s'pose 
'twouldn't  take  so  much.  It  wasn't  more'n  $2,500,  his 
share  of  father's  estate,  was  it?" 

"He  had  no  share  of  the  estate,"  her  husband  an- 
swered, shortly.  "For  God's  sake,  Fanny,  how  often 
have  I  got  to  tell  you  that  there  wa'n't  nothing  for 
him."  Under  stress  of  emotion  Mr.  Hand  used  col- 
loquial speech.  "The  will  read  plain:  I  was  to  have 
the  farm  and  he  was  to  have  the  rest  to  do  as  he 
pleased  with,  but  after  father's  debts  had  been  paid 
there  wa'n't  nothing.  I  stood  ready  to  mortgage  the 
farm  if  nec'ssary  to  give  him  what  he'd  oughter  had," 
said  the  man,  virtuously  and  untruthfully — doubtless 
he  thought  his  wife  would  readjust  her  recollection 
accordingly — "but  he  run  away  and  went  to  sea. 
Stayed  away  for  years,  and  me  struggling  with  the 
farm."  Mr.  Hand  began  gradually  doing  himself 
justice  as  a  heavily  laden,  plodding,  self-sacrificing 
figure.  "When  he  finally  showed  up  I  offered  to  do 
what  was  right  and  he  sneered  at  me,  the  ongrateful 
and  onnatural  brother.  I  says  to  Hosea,  'I'm  ready  to 
forget  and  forgive.  Bygones  kin  be  bygones.'  He 
was  courting  Keturah  Smiley.  It  was  before  her  aunt 
died,  and  she  hadn't  a  cent.  O'  course  it  was  plain 
she'd  have  prop'ty  some  day,  though  no  one  could 
foresee  she'd  have  all  the  Hawkins's  money.  John 


MERMAID  89 

Smiley  hadn't  married  that  Mary  Rogers  then.  So 
after  I'd  talked  with  Hosea  and  offered  to  do  right  by 
him — and  more'n  right,  considering  how  he'd  acted — I 
went  to  Keturah  Smiley,  and  told  her  just  how  things 
stood." 

"Oh,  Richard,  you  hadn't  ought  to  have  done  that," 
Mrs.  Hand  murmured.  "You  had  ought  to  have  kept 
out  of  it." 

"Maybe  I  had,  maybe  I  had,"  retorted  her 
husband.  "But  I  was  never  one  to  reckon  the  con- 
sequences of  doing  a  neighbourly  act.  I  was  trying 
to  do  the  square  thing,  and  more'n  square,  by  Hosea. 
So  I  went  to  Keturah  and  I  says  to  her:  'Hosea  won't 
take  this  money.  Of  course,'  I  says,  'there's  no 
claim  upon  me  for  it,  and  never  was  a  valid  claim,  but 
I  always  wanted  to  do  the  utmost  by  the  boy  and  I 
want  to  be  generous  to  the  man;  even  if  he  has  behaved 
badly  and  said  things  to  me  he  oughter  be  ashamed  of, 
and  will  be  some  day,  I  don't  hold  it  against  him.  I 
harbour  no  resentment,'  I  says,  'and  if  he  won't  take 
this  money  I  wish  you  would.  Every  one  knows/  I 
went  on,  'that  you'll  have  prop'ty  some  day  and  you 
can  pay  me  back  then  if  you  feel  you  should.  Or,'  I 
continued,  wanting  to  make  it  as  easy  as  I  could  for 
her,  'you  can  give  me  your  note  o'  hand  for  the  amount 
at  six  per  cent.,  and  I'll  promise  you  it  won't  leave  my 
hands.  I'll  shave  it  for  nobody,'  I  says,  reassuring 
her,  'and  nobody  need  ever  know  about  it  unless  you 


90  MERMAID 

want  to  tell  Hosea  about  it  afterward  to  bring  him  to  a 
proper  appreciation  of  the  onnatural  things  he  said  to 
his  brother.' ' 

Mrs.  Hand,  who  had  been  clasping  and  unclasping 
her  fingers,  exclaimed:  "But,  Richard!  Don't  you 
think  'twas  a  mistake  to  go  to  Keturah  with  it?  A 
girl  is  so  likely  to  misunderstand  such  matters." 

A  look  of  inscrutable  sorrow  crept  into  Mr.  Hand's 
crafty  eyes.  He  hunched  up  his  shrunken  body  and 
nodded  earnestly. 

"Yes-yes!"  he  confirmed,  using  a  characteristic 
ejaculation  of  the  Long  Islander.  "Keturah  was 
never  the  woman  to  understand  things  in  any  but  her 
own  way.  She  flared  right  up  at  me  and  said  some 
hard  things.  I  won't  repeat  'em,  though  I  remember 
some  of  'em  to  this  day.  For  one  thing,"  he  went  on, 
disregarding  his  promise  of  the  breath  before,  "she 
accused  me  of  trying  to  cheat  Hosea — to  cheat  him! 
She  p'tended  to  think  I  was  trying  to  keep  from 
Hosea  what  was  rightfully  his,  when  I  was  right  there 
trying  to  give  it  back!  She  says  to  me:  'I've  heard  of 
folks  who  wanted  to  eat  their  cake  and  have  it,  too, 
but  you're  the  first  ever  I  see  that  wanted  to  give  some- 
one else  his  bite  and  have  it  back.'  Then  she  cried  out: 
'I  wouldn't  marry  a  man  with  a  brother  so  mean  as 
you!'  I  went  away  a  good  deal  upset,  for  I  was  real 
consarned  to  see  her  married  to  Hosea  and  them  both 
happy.  Hosea  didn't  have  nothing,  but  she  was 


MERMAID  91 

sure  to  have  plenty  from  her  aunt,  and  I  figgered 
'twould  be  money  in  the  family."  Mr.  Hand  shook 
his  head  regretfully  and  a  sigh  whistled  between  his 
teeth. 

Mrs.  Hand  smoothed  her  apron.  After  a  few  mo- 
ments' silence  she  observed:  "Well,  I  s'pose  it's  all  for 
the  best."  It  was  her  favourite  observation,  and  on 
the  philosophy  compressed  into  that  one  short  sentence 
she  had  managed  to  live,  hardly  but  not  so  unhappily, 
with  Richard  Hand  for  these  many  years.  She  wanted 
to  ask  him  what  he  was  going  to  do  with  the  extraor- 
dinary sum  of  $20,000  of  which  he  was  now  possessed, 
but  she  knew  he  would  not  tell  her.  Afterward,  she 
would  learn,  little  by  little.  She  did  not  have  to 
worry,  for  he  was  not  likely  to  lose  it.  She  fell 
to  speculating  as  to  whether  he  would  give  her 
enough  to  buy  a  black  silk  dress  for  Sundays — but 
it  was  an  idle  speculation.  .  .  .  Her  thoughts 
went  along  in  an  ineffectual  fashion  until  she  rose  to 
get  supper. 

Her  husband  ate  in  silence,  undisturbed  by  his  boy's 
chatter  about  the  people  of  Blue  Port,  to  which  they 
had  just  removed.  His  mind  was  already  occupied 
with  the  possibilities  of  $20,000  carefully  handled,  as 
he  would  handle  it.  He  would  not  buy  land,  he  would 
buy  people.  He  would  look  about  for  good  mortgages 
that  could  be  picked  up  cheap.  There  must  be  a  few 
Keturah  Smiley  had  not  got  hold  of.  He  would  go 


92  MERMAID 

slow  and  keep  money  in  the  savings  bank  for  a  while, 
even  though  it  yielded  him  only  a  miserable  four  per 
cent.  If  something  good  came  along  he  would  have  it 
handy.  Perhaps  he  could  organize  some  industry  and 
have  people  working  for  him  directly.  He  liked  to 
drive  people.  The  oyster  industry,  for  example — 
there  ought  to  be  something  in  that  for  a  man  who 
would  use  a  little  capital  and  get  control  of  the  trade. 
Blue  Port  oysters  were  famous  the  world  over.  A 
little  legal  work  would  be  necessary;  the  thought  of 
paying  a  lawyer  hurt  him,  but  there  were  papers  that 
would  have  to  be  drawn  up,  articles  of  incorporation, 
etc.  He  would  stop  in  and  talk  with  Judge  Hollaby 
to-morrow. 

The  upshot  of  this  meditation  ultimately  was  the 
formation  of  the  Blue  Port  Bivalve  Company,  Richard 
Hand,  president;  Horace  Hollaby,  vice-president  and 
secretary;  Richard  Hand,  treasurer.  The  company 
gradually  obtained  liens  on  most  of  the  boats  in  which 
the  men  of  Blue  Port  went  forth  to  dredge  the  oyster 
beds.  It  acquired  these  beds.  There  were  also  free 
beds,  belonging  to  the  township,  but  as  Richard  Hand's 
company  came  to  own  the  boats  it  suffered  less  and 
less  competition.  Everything  went  on  about  as  before; 
the  only  difference  was  that  everybody  [came  to  be  in 
debt  to  Richard  Hand  and  worked  for  him.  The  only 
person  in  Blue  Port  who  remained  independent  of  him 
was  Keturah  Smiley. 


MERMAID  93 

VI 

Mermaid,  hurrying  down  the  street  from  school,  did 
not  notice  a  boy  coming  out  of  the  side  street  on  which 
young  Dick  Hand  lived.  The  boy  was  walking  along 
with  a  most  unboyish  air.  His  head  was  down  and  he 
looked  up  too  late  to  avoid  a  collision.  It  nearly 
knocked  Mermaid's  breath  out  of  her.  When  she  could 
talk  she  accepted  his  confused  apology,  and  smiled. 

"  You're  Guy  Vanton,  aren't  you?" 

He  was  a  short  boy  with  very  black  hair,  a  snub 
nose,  and  a  pale  face.  His  eyes,  which  were  brown, 
had  something  uncanny  about  them;  Mermaid  was 
struck  with  their  resemblance  to  the  eyes  of  wild  ani- 
mals. She  had  seen  deer  with  eyes  like  that.  The 
boy  stood  before  her  with  his  cap  in  his  hand;  he  was 
somehow  not  in  the  least  like  Dick  Hand  or  Tommy 
Lupton  or  any  of  the  other  Blue  Port  boys.  He 
seemed  to  have  very  good  manners  and  to  be  politely 
exercising  them.  Mermaid  unconsciously  assumed  her 
own. 

"Guy  Vanton,  yes,  mademoiselle."  The  French 
word  aroused  Mermaid  to  a  high  pitch  of  curiosity,  and 
the  immediate  effect  of  her  heightened  curiosity  was 
to  make  her  still  more  polite. 

"I — I  beg  your  pardon,"  the  boy  repeated.  "It 
was  all  my  fault.  I  was  not  looking  where  I  was 
going,  mademoiselle" 


94  MERMAID 

She  noticed  that  he  spoke  English  without  the  Blue 
Port  twang,  but  also  without  a  foreign  accent;  his 
speech  was  like  that  of  one  or  two  of  the  schoolteachers 
she  had  had. 

He  seemed  about  to  replace  his  cap  and  hurry  away. 
He  made  a  little  bow  to  her — from  the  waist.  Mer- 
maid had  seen  the  bow  before.  Dickie  Hand  had 
learned  it  in  a  children's  dancing  class  at  Patchogue. 
She  smiled  at  young  Mr.  Vanton,  who  was  so  eager  to 
get  along.  She  had  no  intention  he  should  go  until 
they  were  fairly  acquainted. 

"You  speak  French?" 

"Mais  ouiy  mademoiselle!"  His  uncanny  eyes  fixed 
her  for  a  moment  and  his  pale  face  flushed  a  little. 

"Oh,  I  don't  speak  it,"  Mermaid  explained,  hastily, 
whereupon  he  looked  down  at  the  ground,  as  if  he  had 
lost  interest.  "What  was  that  you  just  said  ?" 

"I  said; 'But  yes!"' 

"I  wish  I  knew  it,"  she  exclaimed.  "I  should  love 
to  study  it,  but  I  don't  think  they  teach  it  even  in  High 
School  at  Patchogue." 

He  said,  without  looking  at  her:  "I  learned  it  in 

Paris.     I — we  used  to  live  there.     My  mother " 

He  stopped. 

Mermaid  said,  sympathetically:  "She's  an  invalid, 
isn't  she?" 

"Oh,  that  isn't — I  mean — why,  why,  yes.  She  is— 
she  has  to  walk  with  a  crutch.  And  then,  only  a 


MERMAID  95 

little."  His  confusion  was  so  evident  that  Mermaid 
felt  sorry  for  him.  With  true  feminine  instinct  she 
decided  that  he  must  suffer  some  more  so  that  ulti- 
mately she  might  help  him.  She  knew  he  did  not  go 
to  school,  she  knew  that  he  lived  all  alone,  shut  up  in 
that  expensive  house,  surrounded  by  gloomy  ever- 
greens, which  must  be  as  sunless  as  Miss  Smiley 's  front 
parlour  had  been  once  on  a  time.  He  lived  there  with  a 
crippled  mother  and  a  formidable  father,  a  retired  sea 
captain  who  was  undoubtedly  a  stern  disciplinarian. 
He  was  pale  and  undersized.  Mermaid  had  heard 
stories  of  sea  captains  all  her  remembering  life  and 
knew  them  to  be  a  peculiar  race  of  men.  Her  im- 
agination worked  rapidly  on  the  problem  presented  by 
Guy  Vanton,  and  she  concluded,  perhaps  somewhat 
rashly,  that  his  father  had  spent  most  of  his  money  on 
the  mahogany  and  teakwood  of  the  parlour  and  fed  his 
boy  on  ship's  biscuits  and  water.  At  any  rate,  he 
looked  it.  But  his  eyes  fascinated  her.  Considering 
briefly  the  means  of  further  advancing  their  acquaint- 
ance she  decided  that  he  should  teach  her  French. 
In  turn,  she  would  ask  him  home  with  her  to  supper, 
and  see  that  he  got  a  square  meal. 

"I  wonder  if  you  wouldn't  teach  me  French?" 
Guy  Vanton  looked  surprised,  but  then  an  expression 
of  pleasure  came  into  the  brown  eyes.     He  nodded. 
Mermaid  continued:  "I  could  come  over  in  the  after- 
noon, sometimes,  when  I  haven't  to  help  Miss  Smiley 


96  MERMAID 

clean  house.  We  could  be  very  still  and  not  bother 
your  mother.  And  sometimes  you  could  come  to  our 
house.  I'm  sure  Miss  Smiley  wouldn't  mind.  I  bring 
Dickie  Hand  there  and  she  gives  him  cookies  though 
she  hates  his  father  like  anything." 

They  were  walking  along  the  street  together. 
Young  Mr.  Vanton  had  got  his  cap  back  on  his  head  at 
last,  but  he  walked  stiffly,  a  little  deferentially,  his  body 
half  turned  toward  the  girl.  Mermaid  chattered  along 
easily  on  whatever  themes  came  into  her  head,  occa- 
sionally punctuating  her  talk  with  a  question  calling  for 
no  answer  more  elaborate  than  a  "Yes"  or  a  "No." 
She  was  much  gratified  when  Dick  Hand  and  Tommy 
Lupton  stopped  their  regular  afternoon  pastime  of 
punching  each  other's  heads  to  stare  across  the  street 
at  her  escort.  She  heard  Dickie  say  to  Tom:  "Well, 
will  you  look  ?  Girls  make  me  sick ! " 

As  if  this  were  the  very  effect  she  desired  to  produce, 
Mermaid  was  remarking  to  the  Vanton  heir:  "That's 
Dick  Hand  over  there,  and  Tommy  Lupton.  You 
know  them,  don't  you  ?  Dick  is  thirteen  and  Tommy's 
fifteen.  I'm  only  eleven,  but  I'm  as  big  as  either  of 
them.  You're  fifteen,  aren't  you  ? " 

"I'm  seventeen,"  he  divulged.  Mermaid  stood 
still  in  her  astonishment. 

"Seven-teen!"  she  gasped.  "Why,  but  you're  no 
bigger  than  Dickie — though  you  know  French  and  he 
doesn't,  and  you  know  a  lot  more  than  he  does  and  are 


MERMAID  97 

lots — lots  nicer,"  she  added,  by  way  of  retrieving  her 
blunder.  "But  you  won't  want  anything  to  do  with 
me,"  she  said  with  honest  candor.  "You'll  think  I'm 
only  a  little  girl.  I  suppose  I  am." 

He  did  not  seem  ready  to  cast  her  off  as  infantile  and 
beneath  his  notice. 

"I  am  too  small,"  he  admitted.  "I  was  not  so 
small  in  Paris — I  mean,  the  boys  at  school  there  were 
not  so  large  as  fellows  of  the  same  age  here.  I  was 
average  height.  Here  I'm  a  little — runt." 

"What  a  lot  you  must  have  seen,"  Mermaid  mar- 
velled. "I  hope  you'll  tell  me  all  about  it.  You  can 
do  that  and  teach  me  French  that  way,  can't  you? 
I've  never  been  anywhere  except  here  and  on  the  beach. 
You  know  I  came  ashore  in  a  shipwreck." 

She  told  him  about  the  wreck,  what  she  had  heard 
of  it  from  her  Dad  and  other  men  of  the  Lone  Cove 
Station;  of  her  home  with  Keturah  Smiley,  and  of  life 
on  the  beach.  Then  she  spoke  of  Captain  John  Haw- 
kins and  the  clipper  ship  China  Castle. 

"You  know  your  father  commanded  her  afterward." 

Guy  did  not  seem  to  know  it.  "  He  never  talks  about 
his  ships,"  the  boy  explained.  With  the  help  of  some 
questions  from  Mermaid,  he  told  her  about  himself. 

He  had  been  born  in  San  Francisco  and  had  lived 
there  for  some  years.  In  the  Presidio  section  of  the 
city.  As  he  talked  of  the  town  Mermaid's  face  took 
on  a  puzzled  look. 


98  MERMAID 

"It's  the  funniest  thing,'*  she  declared.  "Do  you 
know,  I  have  a  feeling  that  I  lived  there  once  on  a  time. 
It  seems  as  if  it  came  back  to  me,  as  if  I  just  sort  of 

half-remembered You  know  the  Mermaid,  the 

ship  I  was  aboard,  came  from  San  Francisco." 

After  they  left  San  Francisco,  the  Vantons  had  gone 
to  live  in  Paris.  Guy's  father  had  then  given  up  defi- 
nitely all  idea  of  going  to  sea  again. 

"He  had  really  never  had  a  ship  since  I  was  born," 
the  boy  explained.  "But  he  kept  thinking,  up  to  the 
time  we  went  to  Paris,  that  he  would  take  another 

command.  My  mother "  he  hesitated,  with  a 

trace  of  the  confusion  he  had  shown  before  in  speaking 
of  her,  and  then  went  on:  "We  had  plenty  of  money, 
and  so  there  was  no  need  for  him  to  go,  but  in  San 
Francisco  he  kept  thinking  of  it,  and  every  day  he 
would  walk  down  to  the  foot  of  Market  Street  and  along 
the  waterfront  and  look  at  all  the  ships.  Sometimes 
he  would  go  aboard  them  and  talk  to  the  captains.  He 
used  to  take  me  with  him.  It  was  very  interesting. 
Ships  from  all  over  the  world — British,  Japanese, 
American,  German,  French,  Norwegian,  Russian  and 
a  lot  more.  He  would  take  me  on  board  the  square- 
riggers  and  teach  me  the  ropes.  'This,'  he  would  say, 
'is  the  fore  t'  gallant  halyard.  This  is  the  fore  royal 
sheet.  This  is  the  fore  topmast  stays'l  sheet.  Now 
what  is  this?'  I  always  got  it  wrong  and  it  used  to 
make  him  terribly  angry.  Then  he  would  tell  me  to 


MERMAID  99 

go  aloft.  I  liked  that,  because  you  could  always  get 
such  a  splendid  view  of  San  Francisco  Bay  and  the 
city,  built  on  hills,  and  the  mountains  over  in  Marin 
County,  with  Oakland  and  Alameda  and  all  the  other 
places  spread  out  before  you." 

"Weren't  you  dizzy?"  Mermaid  asked. 

"Only  the  first  time." 

They  had  reached  Keturah  Smiley's  house.  Mer- 
maid invited  little,  old  Mr.  Vanton  in.  She  gave  him 
crullers  and  coffee,  made  him  acquainted  with  Miss 
Smiley,  and  then  said  good-bye  to  him  at  the  gate. 
It  was  agreed  that  they  should  meet  the  next  afternoon 
pour  parler  Fran^ais.  As  the  French  instructor  hurried 
homeward  he  lit  a  cigarette.  This  was  observed  by 
the  Messrs.  Hand  and  Lupton,  who  were  considerably 
dazed. 

'"And  I  called  him  a  sissy,"  murmured  Mr.  Hand. 

"D'ye  know  what  I  think?"  exclaimed  his  side 
partner.  "He's  a  foreigner,  that's  what  he  is,  a 
cigarette-smoking  foreigner.  Mermaid  ought  not  to 
have  anything  to  do  with  a  fellow  like  that,"  Tommy 
concluded,  virtuously,  and  with  the  sense  of  the  pro- 
tecting male. 

VII 

Mermaid  and  Monsieur  Guy  Vanton  made  friends 
with  each  other  quickly,  aided,  perhaps,  by  the  graces 
of  the  French  language.  At  eleven  years  it  is  not  hard  to 


ioo  MERMAID 

learn  French,  especially  if  your  instructor  speaks  with  a 
pure  accent  and  makes  conversation  in  it  the  order  of 
the  day.  Mermaid  found  that  Guy  did  not  go  to 
school  because  his  father  didn't  wish  him  to,  for  reasons 
not  given.  Guy  said  he  didn't  know  what  was  back  of 
his  father's  objections,  unless  it  was  that  he  would  have 
to  go  away  from  home.  "You  see,  I've  had  the 
equivalent  of  high  school,"  he  told  Mermaid.  "It 
,would  have  to  be  college — or  maybe  a  year  somewhere 
to  get  ready  for  college.  I  don't  much  care.  I  read  a 
lot — we've  heaps  of  books — and  I — I  write  sometimes,'* 
he  confessed,  diffidently. 

"What  do  you  write?"  Mermaid  ventured.  "Say 
it  in  French,"  he  reminded  her  and  after  he  had  cor- 
rected her  question  so  put,  he  replied  in  French: 
"Mostly  poetry." 

He  got  quite  red,  so  that  Tommy  Lupton,  who  had 
been  dishonourably  spying  from  behind  a  shrub  in  the 
next  yard,  was  incensed. 

"Some  day  I'm  going  to  knock  his  block  off,"  Tommy 
told  himself. 

Afterward  he  accosted  Mermaid  down  the  street, 
greeting  her  calmly  but  with  a  touch  of  sadness  in  his 
tone.  She  was  a  nice,  if  misguided,  girl;  Tommy 
didn't  want  to  hurt  her  feelings  but  this  business 
couldn't  be  allowed  to  go  on. 

"Say,  Mermaid,"  he  began,  and  then  faltered  a 
moment  in  the  performance  of  his  unpleasant  duty. 


MERMAID  101 

"We — we  never  see  anything  of  you  any  more  these 
days,"  he  finished.  It  was  not  just  the  thing,  but  it 
was,  perhaps,  best  to  lead  up  to  the  point  gradually. 

Mermaid  seemed  unaware  that  anything  was  wrong. 

"Come  down  to  the  house,  Tommy,  and  I'll  give  you 
a  cookie,"  she  invited  him  sweetly. 

"I  don't  believe  I  want  a  cookie.  I  don't  believe  I 
want  anything  to  eat,"  answered  Mr.  Lupton,  seriously. 

Mermaid  looked  at  him  with  attention.  "You 
aren't  sick,  are  you?"  she  said,  anxiously.  "There's 
two  cases  of  scarlet  fever  in  Patchogue,  I  heard.  You 
ought  not  to  be  going  there  to  high  school  if  you  feel 
that  way." 

Indignation  at  the  turn  the  conversation  was  taking 
overcame  Mr.  Lupton.  He  did  not  want  to  talk  about 
himself  but  about  Mermaid,  and  particularly  about 
the  dangerous  acquaintances — well,  acquaintance — she 
was  cultivating.  He  abandoned  the  possible  diplo- 
matic approaches  to  the  subject  and  blurted  out: 
"What  do  you  want  to  have  anything  to  do  with  that 
Vanton  feller,  for,  anyway,  Mermaid?  If  we  fellers 
don't  have  anything  to  do  with  him  I  shouldn't  think 
you'd — you'd '  He  stuck  hopelessly. 

Mermaid's  very  bright  blue  eyes  were  on  him  and  he 
found  it  difficult  to  collect  his  thoughts  and  present  his 
argument. 

"Shouldn't  think  you'd — have  him  around,"  he  con- 
cluded, unhappily. 


102  MERMAID 

Mermaid  lifted  her  chin  and  her  eyes  flashed. 

"I'd  like  to  know,  Tommy  Lupton,  what  you  know 
about  him,  anyway!" 

Just  the  opening  Mr.  Lupton  craved.  He  poured  it 
all  out  eagerly. 

"Why — why,  he's  a  regular  sissy,  Mermaid,  and  you 
know  it.  He's  a — a  hermit.  I  mean  he  never  mixes 
with  us  fellers,  and  of  course  we're  glad  of  it;  we 
wouldn't  have  anything  to  do  with  him,"  Tommy 
assured  her,  not  bothering  the  logic.  "He's  some  kind 
of  a  foreigner,  probably  a  dago,"  he  inferred,  darkly. 
"He  smokes  cigarettes."  Mr.  Lupton,  who  smoked  only 
cornsilk  in  secret,  saw  the  distinction  clearly.  "If  you 
don't  look  out  some  of  these  days  he'll  be  putting  his 
arm  around  you!" 

He  stopped,  appalled  at  his  own  frankness.  But 
Mermaid  merely  laughed. 

"He's  not  a  foreigner;  he  only  just  speaks  French. 
He  lived  in  Paris  and  learned  it  there,"  she  said  quite 
easily.  "That  doesn't  make  him  a  foreigner;  besides, 
he  learned  good  manners,  Tommy.  And  as  for  his  not 
mixing  with  you  and  Dickie  and  the  rest,  he's  older  and 
doesn't  go  to  school — and  anyway,  you  never  go  near 
him.  I  don't  care  if  he  does  smoke.  You  smoke. 
Only  you  hide,  and  he  doesn't!  I  guess  if  he's  seven- 
teen and  has  lived  abroad  where  everybody  smokes 
early  he  can  smoke  if  he  wants  to.  I  guess  if  his  father 
didn't  think  it  was  all  right  he'd  stop  him.  If  he  puts 


MERMAID  103 

his  arm  around  me  and  I  need  your  help  I'll  scream, 
Tommy,  and  when  you  come  I'll  tell  him  you  kissed 
me  at  your  last  birthday  party!  Will  you  fight  him, 
Tommy?  While  he  was  in  Paris  he  learned  all  about 
duelling,  and  you  two  can  have  a  duel.  I'll  steal  one 
of  the  swords  from  our  front  parlour  and  you  can 
practise  with  it." 

Mr.  Lupton  was  perfectly  red  with  rage  and  white 
with  mortification.  He  was  two  colours,  and  presented 
an  alarming  spectacle.  Mermaid,  done  with  taunting, 
suddenly  approached  him  and  laid  her  hand  on  his 
arm. 

"Don't  be  mad,  Tommy.  I  was  only  teasing.  Of 
course  he's  different  from  you  and  Dick,  but  he's  lived 
in  strange  places — in  San  Francisco  and  Paris — and 
he's  moved  around  a  lot.  And  he  has  a  sick  mother 
and  a  queer  father.  You'd  be  funny  in  his  place. 
And  queer.  And  he's  seventeen,  Tommy,  and  no 
bigger  than  you  and  I  are!  Don't  you  think  you  could 
eat  a  cookie?"  she  asked,  solicitously. 

"It's  only — only  that  I  think  such  a  lot  of  you, 
Mermaid,"  he  protested.  His  natural  dignity  reas- 
serted itself.  "I'll  walk  home  with  you." 

The  procession  formed,  two  abreast,  and  they  went 
on  toward  Keturah  Smiley's.  Mr.  Lupton  ate  three 
cookies  and  an  apple  and  examined,  with  an  air  of 
interest,  the  swords  and  cutlasses  in  the  front  parlour, 
which  he  had  never  handled  before. 


104  MERMAID 

"Does  Vanton  really  know  how  to  fight  with  a 
sword  ?"  he  ventured,  curiously. 

"He  had  fencing  lessons.  Not  a  sword,  a  rapier," 
Mermaid  explained.  "A  sharp  point  that  you  stick 
into  the  other  man.  I  think  I'll  get  him  to  give  me 
lessons." 

"What  would  a  girl  be  doing  with  fencing  lessons?'* 
exclaimed  Mr.  Lupton,  scornfully. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  Just  exercise.  It  might  be 
useful  sometime,"  said  Mermaid,  vaguely. 

"You're  just  thinking  of  something  you  two  can  do 
together."  Jealousy  reawakened  in  Mr.  Lupton's 
bosom. 

"Well,  he  writes  poetry,  and  we  can't  write  poetry 
together." 

"No,  but  he  can  write  it  and  read  it  to  you,"  the 
youth  said,  bitterly.  "Wishy-washy  stuff,  poetry. 
All  except  'Marmion,'"  he  qualified. 

"Oh,  Tommy,  don't  be  foolish,"  sighed  the  young 
woman. 

An  amusing  thought  struck  Mr.  Lupton. 

"Wait  till  I  tell  Dick  he  writes  poetry,"  he  cried. 
"Ow!  Won't  he  yell?  Won't  he? 

"Just  like  a  foreigner  to  stab  a  man  with  a  thing  like 
this,"  Tommy  continued,  imperilling  the  haircloth 
seat  of  one  of  the  "deacon's  chairs"  with  an  unskilful 
lunge. 

At  this  Mermaid  lost  all  patience. 


MERMAID  105 

"He's  not  a  foreigner!"  she  snapped.  "And  if  you 
think  he  can't  put  up  his  fists  you  just  try  him  some 
day.  I'll  bet  you'll  find  you  made  a  mistake!*' 

Mr.  Lupton  sulked  for  a  moment,  but  recovered,  and 
after  borrowing  a  book  and  eating  two  more  cookies 
took  a  calm  departure.  On  the  highway,  however,  the 
thoughts  that  had  disturbed  him  returned. 

"Just  the  same  I'll  have  to  give  him  a  good  licking 
yet,  I  bet,"  he  muttered.  He  hoped  supper  would  be 
ready,  for  he  felt  hungry  after  the  strife  and  passions  of 
the  afternoon. 

VIII 

Richard  Hand  the  elder  had  come  to  own  all  Blue 
Port  with  the  exception  of  Keturah  Smiley  when  the 
balance  of  power,  if  you  could  call  it  that,  was  altered, 
imperceptibly  at  first,  by  the  advent  of  Captain 
Vanton. 

"Buel  Vanton,  Buel  Vanton,"  said  Dick  Hand,  fret- 
fully, to  his  wife  one  morning  some  months  after  the 
studding-sail  whiskers  became  a  familiar  sight  in  Blue 
Port.  "Should  like  you  to  tell  me  who  this  Buel 
Vanton  is." 

Mrs.  Hand,  whose  frequent  tattling  of  village  gossip 
made  her  more  valuable  to  her  husband  than  he  ever 
admitted,  repeated  such  news  as  was  current.  She 
described,  not  quite  accurately,  the  mahogany  and 
teakwood  parlour,  expatiated  on  the  invalid  wife,  who 


io6  MERMAID 

was  never  seen  outdoors,  referred  to  the  small  boy. 
It  had  got  about  that  the  boy  was  older  than  he  looked, 
and  the  father  more  brutal  than  he  spoke,  and  the  wife 
as  mysterious  as  she  was  invisible.  The  toVn  figured 
that  Captain  Vanton  flogged  the  boy,  or  had  flogged 
him  when  he  was  little,  thus  arresting  his  growth; 
probably  he  had  made  his  wife  an  invalid  by  his  cruelty. 
Mrs.  Hand  repeated  and  worked  speculative  em- 
broidery on  the  meagre  facts  and  unsatisfying  con- 
jectures. 

"Humph!"  sneered  Richard  Hand,  his  eyes  fixed 
on  his  plate.  "How  much  money  has  he  got  ? " 

Mrs.  Hand  didn't  know.  And  what  made  things 
worse,  there  seemed  absolutely  no  way  of  finding  out. 
Captain  Vanton  didn't  own  property  in  Blue  Port,  ex- 
cept a  lot  and  the  house  he  had  built  on  it.  He  didn't 
even  have  an  account  at  a  Patchogue  bank.  He 
sometimes  made  trips  to  the  city,  but  they  lived  very 
simply.  The  only  evidence  of  wealth,  after  all,  was  the 
costly  fittings  of  that  front  parlour  which  no  one  in  Blue 
Port  had  ever  entered  since  the  Vantons  moved  in. 
Mrs.  Hand  did  not  know  of  Cap'n  Smiley's  short  call. 
Keturah  Smiley  never  met  "with  the  ladies"  and  never 
talked  any  one  else's  business  unless  it  was  her  business, 
too. 

Her  husband  meditated  aloud: 
'  'F  he  has  money,"  he  observed,  "we  might  make 
some  effort  to  get  acquainted  with  them.     You  could 


MERMAID  107 

call  on  his  wife.  And  Dick,"  with  a  glance  at  his  son, 
"could  make  friends  with  his  boy.  I  might  stop  the 
Captain  on  the  street  some  day  and  ask  him  how  he's 
fixed  to  'nvest  a  little  money  in  shares  of  the  Blue  Port 
Bivalve  Comp'ny." 

Dick  Junior  looked  at  his  father  rebelliously. 

"Say,  Pop,"  he  remarked,  "I'm  not  a-going  to  have 
anything  to  do  with  that  Guy  Vanton  for  you  nor  no- 
body else.  He's — he's  a  big  softy!" 

His  father  looked  at  the  boy  with  his  nearest  approach 
to  good  nature. 

"Maybe  that  girl  that  lives  with  Keturah  Smiley — 
what's  her  name? — some  kind  of  fish — might  tell  you 
something  about  him." 

Young  Mr.  Hand  choked  on  the  coffee  he  was  swal- 
lowing and  rose  from  the  table,  though  there  were 
three  steaming  pancakes  left  of  the  morning's  pile. 

"I  don't  see  why  you  insult  Mermaid,"  he  said  with  a 
comical  boyish  rage  in  his  voice.  "She's  a — a — nice 
girl,  even  if  that  softy  does  get  around  her.  Why — 
why,  I  wouldn't  think  of  asking  her  anything  about 
that  fellow.  She  might  think  I  was  jealous." 

Young  Mr.  Hand  went  out  and  wandered  disconso- 
lately down  the  street,  thinking  miserably  of  Mermaid 
and  the  three  untouched  pancakes.  It  was,  however, 
incompatible  with  his  wounded  dignity  to  make  over- 
tures to  either. 

Old  Richard  Hand,  shuffling  down  the  street,  looking 


io8  MERMAID 

at  the  sidewalk,  perhaps  to  see  where  he  was  going,  per- 
haps to  see  where  someone  else  had  been,  did  not  ob- 
serve a  large,  heavy  craft  also  outward  bound  but  in  the 
opposite  direction  and  on  the  other  side  of  the  thorough- 
fare. No  signals  were  exchanged  and  Captain  Vanton, 
studding-sails  set,  went  careering  on  his  way.  It  was 
some  time  later  when  he  showed  up  at  the  bare  little 
room  which  was  Richard  Hand's  place  of  business  and 
(except  for  Judge  Hollaby's  office)  the  Blue  Port 
Bivalve  Company's  headquarters. 

Captain  Vanton  was  under  all  plain  sail  to  royals. 
He  was  making  ten  knots  or  better  when  he  entered  the 
shabby  room.  He  towered  over  the  puny  form  of 
Richard  Hand  as  might  a  great  clipper,  crowding  her 
white  canvas,  tower  above  a  fishing  smack  under  her 
bows.  And  for  a  moment  he  appeared  quite  likely  to 
run  down  the  village  miser.  Richard  Hand  could  feel 
himself  cut  in  half  and  his  wits  drowning.  He  came 
to  his  senses  with  an  effort.  After  all,  it  was  merely  the 
sea  captain's  physical  presence,  aided  by  those  expan- 
sive whiskers.  Stage  stuff!  With  an  inward  sneer  Mr. 
Hand  got  hold  of  himself.  He  had  always  despised 
whiskers  and  was  clean  shaven  because  he  had  never 
been  able  to  grow  a  beard.  A  beard  would  have  covered 
that  nasty  chin  and  those  cruelly  tight  lips,  and  would 
have  softened  the  look  in  those  eyes.  With  the  benevo- 
lent aid  of  a  beard  Richard  might  have  been  a  deacon,  as 
his  father  had  been  before  him;  and  he  knew  it.  In  a 


MERMAID  109 

business  way,  it  would  have  been  an  advantage  to  him, 
now  and  then,  to  have  been  Deacon  Hand.  Though  it 
gave  him  the  greatest  possible  satisfaction  to  collect 
interest  six  days  a  week  there  was  something  painful 
about  the  fact  that  none  could  be  collected  Sundays. 
Deacon  Hand,  passing  the  plate,  would  have  felt  a 
vicarious  joy.  The  seventh  day  would  not  have  been 
entirely  wasted. 

Rising  hastily,  the  thwarted  deacon  managed  a  fa- 
miliar but  far  from  warming  smile.  "This  is — er — Cap- 
tain Vanton?"  he  asked,  in  a  suave  tone  very  few  per- 
sons in  Blue  Port  had  ever  heard. 

The  visitor  did  not  say  whether  it  was  or  was  not. 
He  looked  around,  as  he  might  have  on  coming  on  deck, 
to  see  whether  the  mate  was  doing  his  work  properly. 
Richard  Hand  lugged  a  chair  forward,  but  Captain 
Vanton  gave  no  sign  that  he  noticed  this.  He  spoke  a 
few  words  in  his  best  quarterdeck  voice: 

"When  did  you  last  hear  from  Captain  King?" 

The  effect  on  Richard  Hand  was  curious.  For  a 
moment  his  weak  and  vicious  jaw  dropped.  A  look  of 
immense  distrust  invaded  his  crafty  eyes.  Then  he 
seemed  to  recover  himself.  Rubbing  his  hands,  as  if 
they  were  cold,  as  they  doubtless  were,  Mr.  Hand  eyed 
his  questioner  up  and  down  a  moment  and  then  gave 
question  for  question: 

"Have  you  a  letter  from  him?" 

Captain  Vanton,  who  had  not  hitherto  looked  at  the 


i  io  MERMAID 

village  miser  at  all,  now  turned  and  gazed  squarely  at 
him,  and  with  so  cold  and  glittering  and  truculent  an 
eye  that  Mr.  Hand  seemed  to  become  more  shrunken 
than  ever. 

"No,"  Captain  Vanton  told  him.  Then  he  asked, 
"Have  you?" 

The  village  miser  shuffled  and  cleared  his  throat.  He 
mumbled  something,  a  negative  apparently.  There 
was  a  moment's  silence  which  was  broken  by  the  Cap- 
tain, whose  tone  had  a  chilled  steel  edge. 

"Why  don't  you  answer  my  question,  sir?" 

It  was  not  the  polite  "sir"  of  the  land  but  the  formal, 
and  often  positively  insulting,  "sir"  of  the  sea.  Mr. 
Hand  had  never  been  so  set  down  in  his  life.  There  was 
never  much  starch  in  him,  and  what  there  was  went  out 
completely. 

"I — I  heard  from  him — why,  quite  recently,  less  than 
a  month  ago,  in  fact,"  he  explained  not  very  readily. 
"But  you — you  have  later  news  of  him,  I  can  see  that." 
The  Uriah  Heep  in  the  man  came  to  the  surface  and  old 
Mr.  Hand  exhibited  his  favourite  brand  of  cordiality — 
the  oily  voice  and  the  skimped  smile.  "Yes-yes.  I 
hope  he  is  well!" 

"He  is,"  affirmed  Captain  Vanton  and  added  non- 
committally:  "He  is  dead." 

An  expression  of  shocked  surprise  appeared  on  the 
face  of  the  village  miser.  He  made  curious,  clucking 
noises. 


MERMAID  in 

"Dear  me.  Dear  me,"  he  managed  to  say,  finally,  as 
an  inadequate  expression  of  his  regret  that  Captain 
King  was  well — and  dead. 

Captain  Vanton  glared  at  the  opposite  wall,  resolutely 
taking  no  notice  of  this  contemptible  land  creature. 

"How  did  he  die?"  pursued  the  much-affected  Hand. 

"Violently,"  barked  Captain  Vanton.  The  mort- 
gage miser  recoiled.  When  he  spoke  again  his  voice 
was  feeble : 

"I  suppose  you  knew  him  very  well?" 

The  Captain  paid  no  attention  to  this.  Suddenly  he 
turned  and  looked  through  Mr.  Hand  about  two  inches 
to  the  left  of  the  breastbone  and  in  the  latitude  of  the 
third  rib,  where  Mr.  Hand's  heart  should  have  been 
sighted  by  the  experienced  mariner,  if  the  miser  had  had 
any.  Mr.  Hand  could  not  have  been  more  disconcerted 
if  Captain  Vanton  had  pulled  a  sextant  from  his  pocket 
and  taken  an  observation  with  that. 

"Why  do  you  lie  to  me?"  asked  Captain  Vanton  at 
length,  and  the  tone  which  had  made  men  perspire  off 
Cape  Horn  induced  a  cold  kind  of  sweat  on  the  body  of 
Hand,  the  miser.  It  really  was  the  tone  more  than  the 
words,  and  surely  the  words  were  unpleasant  enough. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean.  I  lie  to  you?"  the 
land  crab  got  out. 

"Certainly.  Why,  damn  your  eyes,  you  know  you 
haven't  heard  from  Captain  King  in  a  month,  nor  six 
months,  nor  a  year!" 


ii2  MERMAID 

Mr.  Hand  stuttered  in  a  process  of  recollection. 
Captain  Vanton  muttered  something  about  "chro- 
nometer error"  and  seemed  to  swell  up  with  a  slow  in- 
flation of  wrath.  He  might  have  expanded  with  this 
until  the  pinprick  of  the  miser's  speech  punctured  the 
envelope  of  his  maritime  self-command,  but,  as  if  some 
thought  arrested  him,  he  stood  still,  and  regarded  Mr. 
Hand  attentively  for  the  first  time.  Captain  Vanton's 
regard  was  neither  favourable  nor  unfavourable,  and  it 
took  no  account  of  what  Mr.  Hand  seemed  to  be  trying 
to  say.  "A  month  ? "  Of  course  he  had  been  mistaken. 
It  must  have  been  longer  than  that;  much  longer,  come 
to  think  it  over.  Several  months  and  by  gracious!  it 
might  be  a  full  year.  Time  slips  by  so  fast,  and  he  was  a 
busy  man  with  the  affairs  of  the  Blue  Port  Bivalve 
Company  on  his  hands  as  well  as  personal  business. 
Investments.  Couldn't  be  neglected.  Must  be  watched 
night  and  day.  .  .  . 

Mr.  Hand  trailed  off  easily  into  an  account  of  the 
operations  of  the  Blue  Port  Bivalve  Company.  He 
painted  its  bivalvular  prospects.  Aided  by  his  descrip- 
tive faculty  Blue  Port  ceased  to  be  Blue  Port  and  be- 
came another  Golden  Gate. 

At  the  name  of  that  entrance — and  exit — to  and  from 
El  Dorado  Captain  Vanton's  large  bulk  quivered 
slightly  about  the  back  and  shoulders. 

With  fixed  eyes  he  listened  to  all  that  Mr.  Hand 
poured  forth,  saying  nothing,  storing  in  his  brain, 


MERMAID  113 

perhaps,  some  of  these  wonderful  adjectives.  Along 
with  the  adjectives  Mr.  Hand  delivered  a  well- 
assorted  general  lading  of  information,  in  fragments 
and  pieces  which  Captain  Vanton  seemed  to  be  care- 
fully ticketing  for  ready  reassembling  on  some  distant 
pier. 

At  length  Mr.  Hand's  discourse  dwindled.  Would 
Captain  Vanton  care  to  invest  in  the  Blue  Port  Bivalve 
Company's  shares?  More  capital  was  needed  and 
substantial  men,  men  of  affairs.  But  the  man  of 
affairs,  after  drinking  in  all  that  Mr.  Hand  had 
to  say,  shut  up  as  tightly  as  one  of  Mr.  Hand's  own 
bivalves.  He  had  nothing  to  say  and  said  it.  Mr. 
Hand,  concealing  his  disappointment,  expressed  the 
hope  that  Captain  Vanton  would  consider.  The 
Captain,  who  perhaps  thought  no  answer  necessary 
in  view  of  his  very  obvious  consideration  of  some- 
thing, turned  to  go.  And  then  it  was  that  the  same 
stray  thought  that  had  struck  Keturah  Smiley  struck 
Richard  Hand.  How  did  he  know  of  Captain  King's 
death? 

Captain  Vanton  explained  in  not  more  than  three 
words.  They  were,  in  fact,  the  same  three  words  with 
which  he  had  answered  Miss  Smiley. 

Richard  Hand  was  left  all  of  a  tremble.  "  Killed  him 
myself!"  A  self-confessed  murderer!  Good  God,  what 
was  the  world  coming  to  that  such  men  stalked  about 
in  it! 


ii4  MERMAID 

IX 

Tommy  Lupton  had  made  up  his  mind  to  knock  the 
block  off  Guy  Vanton,  and  no  suitable  pretext  or  oc- 
casion offering,  he  went  around  to  the  Vanton  house  one 
day  and  rather  awkwardly  invited  the  objectionable 
Guy  to  take  a  walk  with  him. 

Guy  Vanton,  with  a  flicker  of  surprise  which  changed 
quickly  into  a  look  of  pleasure,  accepted  the  invitation. 
The  two  boys  started  north  toward  the  woods  encircling 
a  small  pond.  They  said  little  to  each  other  at  first. 
Tommy  was  concerned  only  to  reach  a  small  clearing 
in  the  woods,  a  place  carpeted  with  pine  needles  and 
reasonably  secure  from  intrusion  by  passersby.  Guy 
was  puzzled  by  Mr.  Lupton's  stride  and  a  feeling  that 
this  was  somehow  less  a  pleasure  stroll  than  an  er- 
rand. 

"You're  almost  through  High  School,  aren't  you?" 
asked  Mr.  Vanton. 

"Year  more,"  returned  Tommy,  going  rapidly  ahead 
on  the  wood  path. 

"Shall  you  go  to  college  after  that?" 

"Cornell,"  Tommy  informed  him. 

"For  the  engineering  course?"  guessed  Guy  ami- 
cably. 

"  For  the  crew,"  corrected  Tommy. 

"I've  never  rowed,"  Guy  commented,  finding  it 
difficult  to  make  conversation  at  the  pace  they  were 


MERMAID  115 

travelling.  "Except  a  little,  on  the  Seine  near  Paris, 
just  for  sport." 

"Bragging  of  where  he's  been,"  thought  the  grim 
young  man  beside  Mr.  Vanton.  "I'll  give  him  some- 
thing to  brag  about ! "  Aloud  he  said :  "  Ever  box  ? " 

"No.  I've  had  fencing  lessons.  I  used  to  wrestle  a 
little.  Nothing  else  much." 

They  had  gained  the  clearing.  Tommy  moved  to  the 
centre  of  it  and  then  turned  and  faced  his  companion. 

"I've  brought  you  up  here  to  tell  you  something,"  he 
began,  white-faced  and  with  blazing  eyes.  "You — 
you've  got  to  have  nothing  to  do  with — with  her — with 
Mermaid,"  Tommy  found  it  distasteful  to  name  the 
woman  in  the  case,  "from  now  on  or  I'll  knock  your 
block  off.  I  think  I'll  just  do  it,  anyway,"  shouted 
Tommy,  his  fury,  the  accumulation  of  weeks  of  surfer- 
ing,  breaking  forth.  "You  don't  box,  but  you  say  you 
can  wrestle.  I'm  going  to  hit  you  and  you  can  clinch 
and  we'll  see  who  comes  out  on  top !  Being  a — a  damn 
foreigner  I  suppose  you  won't  fight  fair,  but  if  you  try 
biting  or  gouging  I'll  get  you,  don't  you  forget  it!" 

Guy  Vanton,  open-mouthed  with  surprise  at  the  first 
few  words,  had  reddened  with  anger.  His  curious, 
wild-animal  eyes,  ordinarily  so  shy,  had  lost  their  light 
and  were  fixed  steadily  but  unseeingly  on  the  boiling 
young  man  confronting  him.  The  colour  left  his  face. 
He  lowered  his  eyes,  stepped  back  several  paces,  mut- 
tered, "En  garde"  and  awaited  Tommy's  onset. 


u6  MERMAID 

With  a  desperate  sort  of  roar  Tommy  charged.  His 
blood  was  up,  his  head  was  down.  His  fist  shot  out  but 
only  grazed  Guy's  cheek.  At  the  same  instant  his  head 
struck  his  antagonist's  collarbone,  he  felt  himself  caught 
under  the  shoulders,  and  before  he  could  steady  himself 
he  was  on  his  back  on  the  ground.  Young  Mr.  Vanton 
made  no  effort  to  keep  him  pinned  there.  Tommy  rose 
and  attacked  again. 

This  time  he  flung  himself  on  the  pther  boy,  head  up 
and  ready  to  clinch.  But  he  clutched  the  air.  Some- 
thing slipped  under  his  arm  and  caught  his  leg,  throw- 
ing him  from  his  balance.  As  he  staggered  he  was 
picked  up  and  thrown  bodily  a  few  feet  through  the  air, 
landing  on  his  shoulder. 

A  sense  of  awful  lameness  came  over  Tommy  as  he 
picked  himself  up.  Unsteadily  he  planted  a  fist  where 
his  opponent's  breathing  apparatus  should  have  been, 
but  wasn't.  He  felt  his  head  caught  in  a  vise  and 
shoved  downward  with  such  violence  as  to  make  it  seem 
likely  it  had  been  permanently  detached  from  his  body. 
Shoulders  fitted  themselves  into  the  extended  curve  of 
Tommy's  right  arm;  he  half  spun  about  like  a  tee-totum, 
and  then,  having  four  legs  instead  of  the  usual  two,  at 
right  angles  to  each  other,  Tommy  was  uncertain  which 
way  he  faced.  All  four  legs  gave  way  under  him,  his 
face  brushed  the  pine  needles,  he  turned  a  low  somer- 
sault and  found  himself  lying  on  the  soft  and  scented 
earth,  looking  with  a  blurred  vision  at  the  tops  of  the 


MERMAID  117 

pine  trees  and  a  patch  of  blue  sky.  They  faded  from 
sight  after  a  second.  Tommy  was  senseless. 

Water  trickling  down  his  face  awakened  him,  water 
brought  by  his  late  antagonist.  Young  Mr.  Vanton's 
black  hair  was  in  disarray,  his  normally  white  face 
looked  whiter  than  ever,  and  his  strange  eyes  were 
filled  with  anxiety. 

"Tommy!" 

Closing  his  eyes  for  a  moment  to  consider  whether 
this  referred  to  the  late  Tommy  Lupton  or  to  himself, 
the  young  man  with  the  wetted  face  decided  that  he 
would  take  the  chance  that  it  was  intended  for  him. 
He  opened  his  eyes  again,  sat  up  with  a  painful  effort, 
looked  at  Guy  Vanton,  and  smiled — a  sad,  calm  smile 
such  as  befitted  the  victim  of  a  mistake.  But  Guy  Van- 
ton  seemed  to  think  he  had  made  no  mistake.  He 
flung  himself  on  the  ground  beside  the  warrior  and  put 
his  arm  about  the  warrior's  shoulders.  The  shoulders 
gave  a  sharp  twinge,  but  the  warrior,  with  an  effort, 
reached  up  his  arm  and  crooked  it  reciprocally  about 
the  shoulders  of  the  black-haired  boy.  So  intertwined 
they  sat  side  by  side  on  the  pine  needles  for  a  moment, 
and  then  Tommy  struggled  to  his  feet,  the  arm  of  the 
other  helping  him.  After  a  moment  of  dizziness 
Tommy  disengaged  himself  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"Shake!" 

They  shook.  Young  Mr.  Vanton  exhibited  no  air  of 
triumph.  Instead,  he  seemed  actually  dejected.  The 


ii8  MERMAID 

two,  as  by  common  consent,  took  the  homeward  path. 
Tommy  burst  out:  "You  licked  me  fair  and  square. 
I — I'd  like  to  be  friends.  I — I  guess  you're  all  right. 
Mermaid " 

Tommy  stopped.  For  the  first  time  it  struck  full 
upon  him  that  though  he  had  done  all  that  lay  in  him  to 
settle  matters  and  settle  them  right,  matters,  at  any 
rate  the  all-important  matter,  remained  much  as  they 
were  before. 

Mr.  Vanton  broke  in :  "I  want  to  be  friends,  too.  We 
ought  to  be,  hadn't  we,  after  this  ? " 

A  point  bothered  Mr.  Lupton.  "You  haven't  made 
me  take  back  what  I  said  about  you. " 

Looking  down  at  the  ground  Mr.  Vanton  flushed  and 
said:  "Oh,  well,  you  didn't  mean  it.  It — it's  not  im- 
portant. I'm  not  a  foreigner,  you  know.  I  was  born 
in  San  Francisco.  I  keep  dropping  into  French.  You 

just  poke  me  when  I  do  it.  And  about — her " 

Mr.  Vanton  broke  off,  seeming  to  find  the  exact  words 
difficult.  Then  he  went  on :  "You  see,  it  isn't  anything. 
She  likes  to  hear  me  talk  about  France  and  San  Fran- 
cisco and  she's  learning  a  little  French.  And — there's 
nothing  to  it,  except  that  I  don't  know  any  one  here  and 
she's  company." 

A  doubt  deep  in  Mr.  Lupton  found  expression.  "I 
s'pose  she  won't  want  anything  to  do  with  me  after 
this." 

"7  won't  tell  her,"   asserted  the  other  boy.     He 


MERMAID  119 

hesitated,  then  said :  "Tommy,  you  know  she  thinks  an 
awful  lot  of  you.  And,  anyway,  she's  got  to  decide 
for  herself." 

To  this  mature  and  final  view  old,  young  Mr.  Lupton 
assented.  "Of  course  !  I  guess  it's  not  how  we  feel 
about  her,  but  how  she  feels.  Well,  I  don't  care  if  I  do," 
concluded  Mr.  Lupton,  recklessly,  taking  one  of  Mr. 
Vanton's  cigarettes.  He  lit  it,  finding  the  flavour  much 
unlike  a  pipe  of  cornsilk.  It  was  not  his,  however,  to 
pronounce  the  taste  inferior  in  the  face  of  the  world's 
judgment.  Tommy  puffed  and  felt  a  strange  sense  of  ele- 
vation. "That  was  a  dandy  fight  you  put  up,"  he  con- 
ceded. "Say,  where  did  you  get  all  that  stuff?  Will  you 
show  me  how ? "  Mr.  Vanton  agreed.  "I've  forgotten  a 
lot,"  he  confessed.  "I  used  to  have  a  Japanese  wrestler 
when  I  was  a  kid  in  San  Francisco,  and  later  I  had  some 
lessons  in  Paris."  Mr.  Lupton  had  ceased  to  listen, 
however.  The  curing  of  Turkish  tobacco  was  suddenly 
distasteful  to  him.  After  a  while  he  apologized:  "You 
pretty  well  knocked  me  out,"  and  managed  an  ad- 
mirable smile.  They  walked  back  to  Blue  Port  to- 
gether and  Tommy  did  not  even  wince  at  an  allusion 
by  the  shy-eyed  Mr.  Vanton  to  the  fact  that  Mr.  Vanton 
had  a  longing  to  become  a  writer  some  day.  "I  scribble 
a  lot  now.  I  even  write  verse,"  explained  Mr.  Vanton, 
his  innocent  brown  eyes  glancing  for  a  moment  into 
Tommy's  more  worldly  blue  ones.  Tommy  did  not 
smile  or  shout.  His  allegiance  to  the  new  friendship 


120  MERMAID 

was  complete  and  unequivocal;  and  besides,  there  was 
coming  into  his  mind  a  recognition  of  certain  impalpable 
things  which  a  girl  always  fell  for  and  which  he,  Tommy 
Lupton,  had  not  to  offer.  Travel,  a  foreign  language, 
manners  that  were  polite  without  being  stuck-up,  an 
ability  to  talk,  and  a  gift  of  expression;  a  sort  of  good 
looks,  too,  in  spite  of  the  snub  nose  and  the  pallor; 
sophistication  extending  to  the  consumption  of  Turkish 
cigarettes;  and  a  knack  of  writing  poetry.  Tommy, 
who  ached  not  a  little,  felt  a  spiritual  depression.  What 
had  he  to  offer  Mermaid  in  comparison  with  these  en- 
dowments? He  had  a  good  spirit,  however;  he  was  a 
sport  and  quite  ready  to  exclaim,  "May  the  best  man 
win!"  And  Guy  had  won  in  a  fair  fight,  and  he  and 
Guy  were  friends. 

A  feeling  that  school  was  intolerable  crept  over  young 
Mr.  Lupton.  He  longed  to  be  with  his  father  at  the 
Coast  Guard  Station  on  the  beach  where,  in  the  fortu- 
nate event  of  a  shipwreck,  he  might  alone  and  single- 
handed  save  life. 

None  of  these  thoughts  seemed  to  fill  the  mind  of 
Guy  Vanton,  who  was  talking  desultorily  about  San 
Francisco  and  Telegraph  Hill  and  the  Presidio  and  the 
Mission;  Paris,  boating  on  the  Seine,  and  streets  with 
meaningless  French  names.  The  two  boys  parted  in 
front  of  the  Vanton  house,  guarded  by  tall  evergreens,  a 
ship  stranded  in  a  forest  of  Christmas  trees.  To  and 
fro  on  the  veranda,  walking  with  short  steps  and  heavy 


-MERMAID  121 

tread,  paced  Captain  Vanton,  a  mysterious  Santa  Claus 
wearing  enormous  sidewhiskers. 

X 

The  way  in  which  Richard  Hand  senior  came  to  go  to 
Keturah  Smiley  for  money  was  this:  The  affairs  of  the 
Blue  Port  Bivalve  Company,  though  generally  pros- 
perous, required,  at  certain  seasons,  ready  money.  And 
despite  his  $20,000,  now  considerably  grown,  Richard 
Hand  could  not  always  put  his  fingers  on  it.  He  had 
little  use  for  banks.  He  paid  doctor's  bills  for  babies 
at  about  eight  per  cent.,  equipped  young  married 
couples  at  as  high  as  sixteen  per  cent. — for  had  they  not 
the  rest  of  their  lives  to  pay  it  off  in? — and  buried 
people  at  an  average  rate  of  twelve  per  cent.  This  was 
good  business. 

He  had  got  all  Blue  Port  under  his  thumb  except 
Keturah  Smiley.  It  irked  him  to  see  walking  along 
Main  Street  the  tall,  stiff  figure  of  the  only  woman 
who  had  ever  turned  him  down  on  a  business  proposi- 
tion. He  would  go  over,  speculatively,  the  character, 
disposition,  and  probable  fortune  of  his  lost  sister-in- 
law. 

She  owned  a  good  deal  of  land.  Richard  Hand  did 
not  love  land,  but  this  was  good  land,  in  one  large  tract, 
reaching  from  the  South  Country  Road  to  the  bay. 
The  larger  part  was  high  ground,  partly  wooded. 
Through  the  centre  of  it  flowed  Hawkins  Creek.  Sum- 


122  MERMAID 

mer  cottages,  the  creek  being  dredged  as  a  boat  basin, 
or,  with  a  spur  of  track,  a  factory  site? 

When  he  saw  Keturah  Smiley  he  explained,  with  a 
good  deal  of  tiresome  detail,  the  affairs  of  the  Blue 
Port  Bivalve  Company. 

"I  won't  put  a  cent  in  it,"  Keturah  told  him. 

"I  don't  ask  you  to.  I  don't  ask  you  to,"  Mr.  Hand 
explained,  soothingly.  "I  know  how  women  feel  about 
such  things.  'Tirely  right,  too,  'tirely  right.  But 
it's  a  good  company  and  in  good  shape.  Only  we 
need  money  in  hand  to  lease  more  oyster  beds  to 
p'vide  for  expanding  business.  Just  $5,000  would  set 
us  right." 

"Five  thousand  shucks!  I  wouldn't  trust  you  with 
five  cents!" 

"Well,  maybe  you'd  trust  Horace  Hollaby.  I'll 
pledge  the  leases  with  him  as  security." 

Keturah  thought  it  over.  There  could  be  no  ques- 
tion of  Judge  Hollaby's  honesty.  A  $5,000  mortgage 
coming  due  in  six  months  was  certain  to  be  paid. 
Meantime,  the  bank  would  let  her  have  the  money. 
There  would  be  no  profit  in  it,  of  course,  but  curiously 
enough,  for  once  she  was  not  thinking  of  that.  She  was 
thinking  of  an  interview  many  years  ago,  and  of  how 
she  would  love  to  hurt  this  man. 

A  desire  to  pay  him  off  surprised  and  dominated  her. 
She  did  not  see  in  the  least  how  it  was  to  be  done,  but  if 
it  was  to  be  done  this  entrance  into  business  relations 


MERMAID  123 

with  him  was  necessary  and  would  constitute,  in  seme 
way  not  now  clear,  the  first  step. 

"You  take  the  leases  up  to  Judge  Hollaby.  I'll  go 
over  them  with  him,  and  if  they're  al!  right  you  go  to 
him  and  get  the  money,"  she  directed. 

And  then  she  thought — hard. 

XI 

Keturah  Smiley  was  no  fool.  When  the  leases  of  the 
oyster  beds  were  made  out  they  were  made  out  in  her 
name,  and  the  Blue  Port  Bivalve  Compay  had  exactly 
nothing  to  do  with  the  transaction.  Judge  Hollaby, 
purely  in  his  capacity  as  Miss  Smiley 's  lawyer,  attended 
to  the  matter.  Purely  as  Miss  Smiley's  lawyer  he 
attended  to  the  details  of  a  loan  of  $5,000  by  Miss 
Smiley  to  Richard  Hand.  Solely  as  a  man,  an  oldish 
fellow  who  had  seen  a  good  deal  of  human  nature  and 
knew  both  parties  in  the  case,  he  wondered  what 
would  happen  next. 

He  had  not  long  to  wait.  The  oyster  beds  were  not 
extensive,  but  they  were  the  richest  in  that  part  of  the 
Great  South  Bay.  Keturah  Smiley,  deserting  Judge 
Hollaby  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  went  to  a  Patchogue 
lawyer  and  formed  with  him  the  Luscious  Oyster 
Corporation. 

The  Luscious  Oyster  Corporation  took  over  the  leases 
of  the  oyster  beds  held  by  Keturah  Smiley  and  took 
an  option  on  a  large  part  of  the  Smiley  land.  The 


124  MERMAID 

Patchogue  lawyer  held  that  indiscretion  was  some- 
times the  better  part  of  valour.  He  was  very.,  very  indis- 
creet; he  was  deliberately  and  extensively  indiscreet. 
And  the  world  that  cared  about  Blue  Port  oysters  soon 
1  knew  all  the  plans  and  purposes  of  the  Luscious  Oyster 
Corporation. 

It  would  build  a  large  factory  on  Hawkins  Creek. 
Arrangements  for  special  railway  trackage  were  being 
made.  There  was  plenty  of  capital  back  of  the  new 
corporation.  It  had  the  rights  to  a  new  and  hitherto 
unannounced  process  for  making  several  first-class  prod- 
ucts from  oyster  shells.  Its  oysters,  the  best,  the  fattest, 
the  most  succulent  in  all  the  Great  South  Bay,  would 
be  shipped,  opened,  in  sanitary  containers  with  a  dis- 
tinctive label  and  carried  in  refrigerator  cars.  The  shells 
would  be  turned  over  to  the  factory  where,  aside  from 
certain  novelties  and  trinkets  and  toys,  vast  numbers  of 
them  would  be  used  in  the  composition  of  a  new  kind  of 
cement  for  floors  in  office  buildings  and  for  roofing. 

This  cement  was  superior  to  anything  yet  discovered 
for  these  two  purposes,  and  possibly  for  others — ex- 
perimentation with  it  was  still  going  on.  As  a  roofing 
it  was  clean,  smooth,  of  an  attractive  dull  white  finish 
which  could  be  tinted  to  any  desired  shade.  It  was 
absolutely  tight  and  waterproof  and  noiseless!  The 
hardest  shower,  striking  upon  it,  was  inaudible.  As  a 
flooring  the  cement  had  all  these  advantages  and 
several  others  besides.  It  could  be  flushed  with  water, 


MERMAID  125 

and  if  wiped  only  partly  dry  would  dry  quickly  by 
atmospheric  absorption.  Footsteps  could  hardly  be 
heard  upon  it.  If  left  white  it  reflected  artificial  light 
and  enhanced  the  illumination  of  the  room;  moreover, 
it  was,  because  of  its  whiteness,  next  to  impossible  to 
lose  anything  upon  it.  Tinted,  it  matched  any  rug  or 
floor  covering.  And  it  was  tremendously  durable. 
Prolonged  tests  with  hard  substances  scuffing  con- 
tinuously over  a  sample  of  the  cement  had  not  worn 
away  the  surface  perceptibly,  but  should  it  wear  away, 
the  texture  of  the  cement  was  uniform  throughout.  The 
worn  spot  would  look  exactly  like  the  rest  of  the  floor. 

No  stock  was  for  sale. 

This  last  announcement  filled  with  incredulity  the 
dismayed  Richard  Hand,  reading  the  newspapers  and 
gnashing  his  teeth  which  were  not  so  well  preserved  as 
Keturah  Smiley's.  There  must  be  stock  for  sale! 
There  always  was,  in  a  thing  like  this.  What  was  the 
use  of  all  this  puffing  if  it  was  not  to  unload  stock  on 
unsuspecting  purchasers?  Still,  this  piece  of  canniness 
did  not  help  Mr.  Hand  along  mentally.  He  didn't 
want  the  worthless  stock.  He  wanted  those  oyster 
beds;  and  most  particularly  he  wanted  this  talk  about 
the  Luscious  Oyster  Corporation,  its  plans,  its  purposes, 
its  enterprise,  and  its  prospective  glory  stopped — ab- 
solutely stopped.  It  was  hurting  the  business  of  the 
Blue  Port  Bivalve  Company,  and  if  unchecked  would 
hurt  it  still  more. 


'126  MERMAID 

He  went  to  see  Keturah. 

"Unfair?'*  snapped  Miss  Smiley,  answering  Mr. 
Hand's  principal  accusation.  "When  did  you  ever 
take  up  the  little  problems  of  fairness,  Dick  Hand? 
Besides,  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  it.  I  am  not  the 
Luscious  Oyster  Corporation,  and  shaVt  be.  I've 
merely  sub-leased  some  oyster  beds  to  them  and  given 
them  an  option  on  a  piece  of  land.  Go  see  Mr.  Brown. 
He's  doing  the  talking." 

She  went  to  the  door  with  him.  "Mind  you're 
ready  with  that  money  when  it's  due,"  she  admonished 
him. 

Mr.  Hand  was  ready  neither  with  money  nor  a  retort. 
He  repaired  to  the  office  of  Mr.  Brown,  the  Patchogue 
lawyer. 

"Absolutely  true,  every  word  of  it,  Mr.  Hand," 
said  Lucius  Brown,  bringing  his  right  fist  against 
the  palm  of  his  left  hand.  "Ab-so-lute-ly  true!  No 
stock  for  sale.  Patents  all  right.  Samples  over 
there  on  the  desk.  Tests  whenever  you'd  like  to  see 
them." 

"I  don't  care  for  your  samples  and  tests,"  snarled  old 
Mr.  Hand,  showing  how  bad  his  teeth  were.  "What 
do  you  want  to  quit  this  nonsense  ? " 

"What  do  you  mean?"  inquired  the  younger  man, 
suddenly  grave. 

"How  much  money?"  shouted  Richard  Hand,  his 
fingers  closing  and  unclosing.  He  trembled  with  rage. 


MERMAID  127 

The  face  of  the  other  man  suddenly  assumed  a  dark  and 
menacing  expression. 

"Is  this  a  bribe,  Mr.  Hand?" 

"Call  it  what  you  like.  I  want  you  should  shet  up," 
answered  the  caller,  doggedly.  "Only  question  is,  how 
much  will  you  take  to  shet  up  this  fool's  talk  ? " 

Mr.  Brown's  face  mirrored  mixed  emotions. 

"You're  making  a  serious  mistake,  Mr.  Hand,  when 
you  address  me  that  way,"  he  informed  the  miser. 
"You  are  badly  advised  when  you  talk  about  paying 
me  money  to  'shet  up.'  If  you  want  to  make  a  busi- 
ness proposition  to  buy  the  leases  of  oyster  beds  held 
by  the  Luscious  Oyster  Corporation  and  our  option  on 
Miss  Smiley 's  land,  I  am  here  to  receive  it." 

Richard  Hand  reflected.  His  crafty  glance  travelled 
out  of  the  window  and  across  the  street.  As  if  she  were 
there  precisely  to  focus  his  thoughts  at  this  moment, 
Keturah  Smiley,  with  Mermaid  beside  her,  walked 
along  the  opposite  side  of  the  thoroughfare  bent  on  some 
enterprise  of  shopping.  She  was  very  straight,  as 
usual;  her  shoulders,  thrown  squarely  back,  were  in- 
expressibly odious  in  the  sight  of  the  drooping  Mr. 
Hand.  Even  more  odious  was  the  relaxation  of  her 
severe  face  as  she  turned  to  answer  some  question  the 
girl  beside  her  had  been  asking.  Mr.  Hand  made  up 
his  mind  quickly. 

"I  don't  want  none  o'  your  patents  nor  samples  nor 
stock,"  he  declared  in  a  surly  and  savage  tone.  "I'll 


128  MERMAID 

buy  those  leases  of  you  for  just  what  they  cost  me — 
$5,000."  A  thought  stunned  him.  Then  he  raised 
his  voice  almost  to  a  scream. 

"Here,"  he  cried,  "what  am  I  buying  back  my  own 
property  for?  Them  leases  is  mine.  It's  a  swindle!'* 

Mr.  Brown  seemed  interested.  A  thin  foam  ap- 
peared on  Richard  Hand's  lips. 

"I  borrowed  $5,000  from  Keturah  Smiley  to  lease 
those  beds,"  he  shouted.  "That  fool  Hollaby  makes 
out  the  leases  in  her  name.  Makes  out  a  note  for 
ninety  days  for  $5,000,  my  note,  and  gives  it  t'  her. 
Hands  me  the  money  and  I  pay  for  the  leases.  I — 
why,  I  own  those  leases.  Give  'em  back,  you  robber, 
give 'em  back!" 

"Moderate  your  language  or  I'll  throw  you  out  of 
here  and  down  the  stairs,"  Lucius  Brown  advised  the 
old  man.  "Don't  talk  robbery  or  swindling  in  this 
office.  Now  see  here,  let's  see  just  what  this  is.  You 
borrowed  $5,000  of  Miss  Smiley  to  lease  these  beds. 
But  the  leases  were  made  out  in  her  name.  Well,  then, 
man,  everything  depends  upon  your  understanding 
with  Keturah  Smiley.  Can't  you  see  that  there  are 
two  separate  transactions?  Can't  you  see  that  it  was 
no  concern  of  hers  what  you  did  with  $5,000  she  lent 
you?  The  owners  of  those  beds  got  their  money. 
And  you  got  $5,000  on  your  personal  note.  Did 
Judge  Hollaby  conceal  from  you  the  fact  that  the 
leases  were  being  made  out  to  Miss  Smiley?" 


MERMAID  129 

"No,"  groaned  Richard  Hand. 

"Then  there's  nothing  more  to  say,"  finished  the 
lawyer.  "You  put  yourself  in  her  hands.  Has  she 
broken  faith?  Did  she  ever  promise  you  in  word  or 
writing  any  money  or  other  valuable  consideration  for 
those  leases?  No?  Was  there  any  verbal  understand- 
ing with  you  respecting  them  ? " 

"I  told  her  I'd  pledge  'em  with  Judge  Hollaby,  but 
when  they  were  drawn  she  insisted  they  be  made  out 
to  her,"  Mr.  Hand  explained.  He  was  dazed.  "She 
threatened  to  back  out  at  the  last  moment.  She — she 
didn't  exactly  promise  anything.  She  said  they  must 
be  leased  to  her.  She  said  she'd  lend  me  $5,000  on  my 
note  of  hand." 

"As  nearly  as  I  can  make  out,"  observed  Lucius 
Brown,  "Miss  Smiley  talked  little  and  made  no  en- 
gagements. You  can't  prove  anything  by  what  she 
said,  and  you  can't  prove  anything  by  what  she  thought. 
You  might  succeed  in  proving  your  own  lack  of  brains; 
in  fact,  you  have  satisfied  me  that  you  haven't  any." 

Mr.  Hand  said  no  more.  With  a  look  of  actual 
agony  on  his  face  he  turned  and  drooped  away  in  the 
direction  of  the  door.  But  with  the  tenacity  of  a 
drowning  man — drowning  in  grief,  rage,  mortification, 
and  dismay — he  clutched  at  a  straw.  Pausing  at  the 
doorway  of  the  lawyer's  office  he  took  a  half  step  back. 

"But — now — there's  that  option  on  the  Smiley 
tract,"  he  stammered.  "I  might  buy  that.  I've 


I3o  MERMAID 

been  thinking  for  a  long  time  of  buying  a  likely  piece 
of  land.  How  long's  that  option  for,  and  how  much 
would  you  want  for  it  ? " 

Mr.  Brown  considered.  "Twenty  thousand  dollars," 
he  said,  finally.  Mr.  Hand,  recoiling,  sneered. 

"Twenty  thousand!  Nonsense!  Why,  the  land  it- 
self ain't  worth  more'n  ten.  I'd  be  buying  it  twice 
over." 

"Well,  it  seems  to  be  a  passion  with  you  to  buy  things 
twice  over,"  said  the  lawyer,  reflectively.  "It's  an 
option  to  buy  only,  and  must  be  exercised  in  six  months, 
otherwise  it  is  forfeit.  But  you  must  consider  that  in 
buying  this  option  you  practically  do  away  with  the 
Luscious  Oyster  Corporation.  All  our  plans  are  predi- 
cated upon  dredging  Blue  Port  oysters  from  a  few 
beds  and  preparing  and  shipping  them  from  this  nearest 
available  site,  working  up  the  shells  for  commercial 
purposes.  If  you  buy  our  option  we  cannot  go  on. 
There  is  no  other  site,  and  there  are  no  other  beds  ex- 
cept the  free  beds,  unsuitably  located  for  our  purpose 
and  yielding  inferior  oysters.  You  might  as  well  buy 
our  capital  stock,  patent  rights,  and  everything,  lock, 
stock,  and  barrel,  as  buy  that  option.  Naturally  we 
have  to  ask  a  high  price  for  it,  even  if  we  only  paid 
$1,000  to  get  it." 

"You  figure  your  assets,  outside  the  option,  at 
$19,000,"  deduced  Richard  Hand.  "Option,  $1,000; 
leases  of  beds,  $5,000;  patents  and  prospects  and 


MERMAID  131 

lawyer's  fees" — here  he  sneered — "$14,000.  I'm  to  pay 
you  $20,000  and  then  pay  Keturah  Smiley  $5,000  more 
for  part  of  that  $20,000  worth." 

"See  here,  Mr.  Hand,"  said  the  lawyer,  earnestly. 
He  changed  his  tone  to  one  of  warning  persuasion.  "I 
have  no  doubt  that  when  the  time  comes  Miss  Smiley 
will  refuse  to  take  any  money  on  that  note  for  $5,000, 
preferring  to  keep  the  lease  of  the  oyster  beds.  Mr. 
Hand,"  and  Lucius  Brown's  voice  had  a  ring  in  it, 
"this  is  a  dead  serious  proposition.  The  Luscious 
Oyster  Corporation,  which  honours  me  by  misspelling 
my  first  name,  is  no  joke.  Everything  that  I  have 
said  about  it  can  be  substantiated  and  will  be. 
Every  prediction  I  have  made  will  be  verified.  What 
that  will  mean  to  the  Blue  Port  Bivalve  Company  and 
to  you  personally  I  can't  say,  because  I  don't  know  and 
I  don't  care.  But  this  much  I  do  know:  if  you  buy 
anything  from  us  you  will  not  pay  too  high  a  price  for 
it,  and  you  will  pay  for  it  only  once.  What  you  don't 
buy  you  will  go  without.  We  purpose  to  go  ahead  with 
our  plans  and  do  not  expect  to  be  molested;  but  if  you 
are  looking  for  a  fight  you  can  get  it  right  here." 

Richard  Hand  was  facing  a  man  younger  than  him- 
self, of  greater  intelligence  and  better  education,  a  man 
trained  in  the  law  who  presumably  knew  exactly  what 
he  could  do,  and  when  and  how — and  how  much.  There 
was  no  knowing  what  was  behind  him.  It  might  be  one 
of  the  banks,  Richard  Hand  reflected.  It  might  be  (a 


i32  MERMAID 

shudder)  rich  New  Yorkers;  capitalists  that  you  read 
about.  The  young  man  named  no  names,  but  this 
only  enhanced  the  dread  stirring  in  Richard  Hand's 
mind.  The  unknown  is  fearful. 

If  the  Luscious  Oyster  Corporation  once  got  started 
it  very  likely  spelled  the  ruin  of  the  Blue  Port  Bivalve 
Company.  It  would  break  the  monopoly  he  had  so  care- 
fully and  laboriously  built  up,  take  away  from  him  the 
little  czardom  he  had  created,  and  leave  him  a  poor  man. 

But  $20,000!  He  was  worth,  now,  more  than  that. 
Not  so  much  more,  though.  It  would  take  away  from 
him  exactly  the  sum  with  which  he  had  started  opera- 
tions in  Blue  Port;  it  would  put  him  back  where  he 
had  been  then.  He  would  have  enough  left  to  keep  him 
out  of  the  poorhouse.  .  .  .  Either  that  or  a  life- 
and-death  grapple,  with  the  loss  of  every  cent  he  had! 

There  was  a  sort  of  mist  before  his  eyes  as  he  stood 
in  Lucius  Brown's  office.  He  had  never  been  so  terrified 
in  his  life.  A  pain  that  had  arisen  in  the  back  of  his 
head  troubled  him.  He  seemed  to  be  on  fire,  all  aching; 
and  the  next  moment  he  was  cold,  his  head  swam,  and  he 
felt  near  to  nausea.  Gradually  every  other  feeling  but 
the  one  of  fear  left  him — fear  and  physical  pain.  His 
mind,  as  distinguished  from  the  head  that  contained  it, 
was  numb.  He  could  not  think.  He  heard  himself 
saying: 

"I'll  buy.  I'll  buy.  I'll  buy— everything.  Only  I 
must  have  my  note  back.  Keturah  Smiley  must  give 


MERMAID  133 

me  my  note  back."  He  began  to  whimper  like  a  little 
child.  "My  note,  give  me  back  my  note!  It's  $5,000. 
Five — thousand — dollars." 

Lucius  Brown  turned  away  in  a  sort  of  pity,  which 
was  for  the  man's  physical  distress  only. 

"Come  in  to-morrow  and  I  will  have  things  ready  for 
you,"  he  said,  sitting  down  at  his  desk  and  leaving  his 
caller  to  get  out  as  well  as  he  might. 

And  so  it  came  about  that  Richard  Hand,  as  presi- 
dent of  the  Blue  Port  Bivalve  Company,  signed  a  con- 
tract whereby  the  Blue  Port  Bivalve  Company  bought 
the  capital  stock  of  the  Luscious  Oyster  Corporation, 
with  all  rights,  leases,  options,  patents,  etc.,  etc.,  held 
by  the  said  corporation;  in  consideration  whereof  the 
company  aforesaid  agreed  to  pay  and  deliver  to  the 
said  corporation  the  sum  of  $20,000 — of  which  $1,000 
was  payable  in  cash  on  the  signing  of  the  contract,  and 
the  remaining  $19,000  was  payable  in  instalments  as 
thereinafter  set  forth. 

With  a  copy  of  this  agreement,  Lucius  Brown  handed 
to  Richard  Hand  the  note  for  $5,000.  In  the  street 
Richard  Hand  suddenly  stopped,  pulled  this  note  from 
his  pocket,  and  with  frenzied  fingers  tore  it  to  shreds. 

"Damn  you!"  he  sobbed. 

XII 

The  relation  of  Keturah  Smiley  to  the  events  in 
Lucius  Brown's  office  was  fairly  simple;  at  least,  she  and 


i34  MERMAID 

Mr.  Brown  seemed  to  find  it  so.  They  met  later  in  the 
day.  Miss  Smiley  was  unaccompanied. 

"Now  about  this  money,"  she  said,  in  her  most  de- 
cided tones.  "Most  of  it  must  go  to  Hosea  Hand.  It 
will  be  the  sum  Dick  Hand  withheld  from  him,  with 
interest  at  6  per  cent,  for  more'n  a  quarter  of  a  century. 
If  Hosea  knows  where  it  came  from  he  won't  take  it," 
she  told  Mr.  Brown  with  a  grin.  "Fix  it  up.  Left 
him  by  a  cousin  several  thousand  dollars  removed. 

"I'll  take  the  $1,000  for  the  option  on  my  land  and 
run  the  risk  Dick  Hand'll  exercise  it.  He  hasn't  enough 
money  left  for  that .  How  much  do  you  want  ? " 

Mr.  Brown,  without  affecting  embarrassment,  named 
a  fee. 

"Too  little,"  Keturah  commented.  "I  have,  besides 
the  money  for  the  option,  $5,000  for  the  leases,  the 
money  I  lent  that  old  fox.  That's  $6,000.  I  figure 
it'll  take  $12,000  to  set  Hosea  right.  That  leaves 
$2,000.  Take  it.  You  deserve  all  of  it.  I'm  not  say- 
ing you  don't  deserve  more.  It's  worth  that  to  me  to 
take  the  hair  and  some  of  the  hide  off  that  man." 

"About  the  patents,  Miss  Smiley?"  Lucius  Brown 
suggested. 

"I'm  not  forgetting  them,"  answered  Keturah. 
"But  they  didn't  cost  me  anything  and  I  don't  want 
anything  for  them.  I  once  fed  and  housed  a  crazy 
inventor — that  is,  he  was  crazy  some  ways  but  his 
inventions  seem  to  be  all  right.  He  left  'em  to  me  for 


MERMAID  135 

his  keep  and  out  of  gratitude,  maybe.  Anyway,  I've 
had  'em,  along  with  other  odds  and  ends,  these  many 
years.  I  saw  enough  to  convince  me  that  they  were 
worth  something;  so  did  you.  Just  how  much  I  don't 
know;  I  was  never  one  to  monkey  with  those  things. 
But  it  won't  hurt  Richard  Hand  to  part  with  a  few 
thousands  for  them.  They're  all  in  good  shape  and 
order.  If  he  goes  ahead  and  makes  a  mint  o'  money 
with  them  I'll  be  sorry!" 

"He  hasn't  the  necessary  capital,"  said  Brown. 

"And  he  can't  get  it,"  finished  Miss  Smiley.  "And 
he  has  no  more  nerve  than  a  hen  crossing  the  road.  It 
takes  a  young  man  to  do  those  things.  Some  day  that 
boy  of  his  might  make  something  out  of  them — if  he's 
got  any  stuff  in  him  besides  the  Hand  meanness!"  she 
concluded,  thoughtfully. 

"  I  don't  know  why  I'm  so  generous  with  Dick  Hand," 
she  continued,  after  a  moment.  "Twelve  thousand 
dollars  of  this  money  represents  an  accumulated  sum 
unrighteously  withheld  from  his  brother.  Two  thou- 
sand dollars  represents  your  fee.  That's  fourteen 
thousand — and  for  it  he  is  getting  patents  that  may  be 
worth  ten  times  that.  But  we  had  to  give  him  some- 
thing/' she  said,  half  humorously.  "I  wish  I  had  a 
little  less  conscience  so's  to  use  him  as  he's  used  others!" 

A  knock  sounded  on  the  door.  Mr.  Brown  called  out, 
"Come  in,"  and  Mermaid  entered.  She  wore  a  dark 
green  tailored  suit,  and  her  skirts  had  lengthened.  Her 


136  MERMAID 

abundant  coppery  red  hair  had  been  "put  up,"  and  she 
looked  an  astonishingly  mature  young  lady.  The  three 
freckles  remained  in  place  and  the  dimples  had  deep- 
ened. 

"Aunt  Keturah,"  she  said,  using  a  new  form  of 
address,  "time  to  go  home!  Dickie  Hand  is  outside 
waiting  for  me.  Have  you  heard  the  news?  His 
father  told  Dickie  and  his  mother  that  he'd  broken  a 
tooth  and  lost  all  his  money.  Must  have  been  his 
wisdom  tooth,"  surmised  the  girl  as  Miss  Smiley  rose  to 
go  with  her. 

XIII 

When  Hosea  Hand,  otherwise  and  generally  Ho  Ha, 
learned  through  a  visit  from  Lucius  Brown  that  $12,000 
had  been  left  him  by  a  cousin  he  was  astounded,  happy, 
and  perplexed.  For  some  time  he  did  nothing  but  treat 
his  friends  and  acquaintances.  He  bought  Mermaid 
countless  ice  cream  sodas  and  Mr.  Brown  countless 
cigars,  and  various  others  a  considerable  number  of 
drinks  (always  taking  a  cigar  himself)-  Occasionally 
he  got  confused  in  his  happiness,  as  when  he  asked  Mer- 
maid to  have  a  cigar  and  Lawyer  Brown  whether  he 
wanted  lemon  or  orange  phosphate.  His  perplexity 
arose  over  the  cousin  whose  beneficiary  he  had  so  un- 
expectedly become.  Mr.  Brown  seemed  unable  to 
make  this  end  of  the  wonder  suitably  clear. 

"A  fourth  or  fifth  cousin,  Hosea,"  said  the  lawyer, 


MERMAID  137 

carelessly,  over  the  substitute  for  the  phosphate.  "She 
— he — they — I  mean,  it — was  someone  you  never  knew. 
She — they — had  a  lot  of  money.  Remembered  all  the 
relatives." 

"Well,  father  and  mother  both  came  of  large" fami- 
lies," observed  Ho  Ha.  "I  must  have  had  a  couple 
dozen  cousins.  I  can't  remember  who  was  fourth  and 
who  was  fifth  among  'em.  I  don't  know — would  you 
think  I  might  show  my  appreciation  by  putting  up  a 
nice  tombstone  to  this  cousin?" 

"Good  Lord,  certainly  not!  I  mean — I'm  sure  there 
will  be  a  suitable  memorial,"  replied  Mr.  Brown, 
slightly  choking  over  the  near-phosphate  as  his  mind 
imaged  a  tall  shaft  in  honour  of  Keturah  Smiley. 

"What  was  the  name?"  asked  Ho  Ha. 

"Ke "  began  the  lawyer,  thoughtlessly,  caught 

himself  in  time,  and  changed  the  syllable  to  the  simili- 
tude of  a  sneeze.  "Ke-chew!  Ke-chew!"  He  sneezed 
again,  as  though  an  encore  might  confer  verisimilitude. 
Ho  Ha  did  not  appear  to  suspect  the  sneeze. 

"I  s'pose  that  cussed  brother  of  mine  got  a  share," 
Ho  Ha  meditated  aloud.  "The  wonder  is  he  didn't  get 
mine,  too." 

Mermaid  mixed  her  drinks  recklessly,  following  a 
pineapple  ice  cream  soda  with  a  raspberry.  It  was 
before  the  day  of  the  more  fanciful  concoctions  or  Mer- 
maid would  have  had  a  week  of  sundaes. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do,  Uncle  Ho?"  she  inquired 


I38  MERMAID 

with  the  interest  that,  from  a  young  woman,  is  always  so 
flattering  to  a  man,  even  an  uncle. 

"Oh,  I  guess  I'll  build  a  little  shack  on  the  beach  and 
put  the  rest  in  the  bank,"  Ho  Ha  told  her. 

"I  didn't  mean  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  the 
money,  but  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  yourself?" 

Hosea  twinkled.  "P'raps  I'll  marry,"  he  hinted. 

"Now  if  I  was  only  a  young  man "  He  looked  at 

her  roguishly. 

"It's  never  too  late  to  marry,"  Mermaid  said,  be- 
tween spoonfuls.  "But  if  you're  going  to  marry  you 
won't  want  a  shack  on  the  beach — or  your  wife  won't, 
which  amounts  to  the  same  thing." 

Ho  Ha  nodded  repeatedly.  "I  don't  want  to  marry 
the  first  woman  that  proposes  to  me,"  he  announced 
with  his  most  sagacious  air.  "I  might  advertise, 
eh?" 

They  strolled  down  the  street  together  until  they 
reached  Keturah  Smiley's.  Mermaid  commanded  her 
uncle  to  enter.  Keturah  was  making  a  batch  of  cookies 
in  the  kitchen. 

"Come  in,  Hosea,"  she  said,  cordially.  "Child,  if 
Dickie  Hand  comes  here  this  evening,  do  for  goodness' 
sake  make  the  boy  eat  yesterday's  crullers  so  we  can 
have  a  taste  of  these  cookies  ourselves.  I  declare, 
Hosea,  I  don't  know  what  my  own  cake  tastes  like  any 
longer." 

"I  do,"  said  Ho  Ha,  looking  at  her  attentively. 


MERMAID  139 

"Have  one,"  said  Keturah,  slightly  flustered  by  the 
look  he  gave  her.  Could  he  have  learned  anything? 
Ho  Ha  fell  silent  a  moment,  and  then  after  several 
mouthfuls  said:  "You  were  always  a  great  hand  for 
relationships,  Keturah.  Can  you  tell  me  who  this 
cousin  was  that's  left  me  some  money  ? " 

Miss  Smiley  faced  away  from  him  and  began  ener- 
getically stowing  her  batch  in  a  cake  box. 

"I  don't  know,  Hosea,"  she  answered.  "I  never 
could  keep  track  of  your  relations." 

"I  don't  believe  this  cousin  was  a  relation,"  said  Ho. 
Ha.  "I  never  heard  of  any  relations  except  poor  re- 
lations. Most  likely  this  was  some  conscience-stricken 
person,  repenting  of  evil  gains " 

"Nonsense!"  exclaimed  Miss  Smiley  with  an  em- 
phasis and  a  touch  of  indignation  that  seemed  unneces- 
sary. "She  had  as  clear  a  conscience  as  some  others, 
I  guess." 

"Oh,  so  'twas  a  woman?"  observed  Ho  Ha,  inno- 
cently. "Well,  now,  that's  funny.  I  can't  think  of  any 
woman " 

"I  didn't  say  'twas  a  woman,"  parried  Keturah. 
"She  or  he  or  whoever  it  was  probably  had  more  than 
she — he — knew  what  to  do  with.  Left  to  the  next  of 
kin.  It's  a  common  thing." 

"Uncommon  common,"  agreed  Ho  Ha  somewhat 
paradoxically.  "Happens  every  day.  You  read  about 
it  in  the  newspapers.  I  dare  say  she,  he,  or  it  got  the 


i4o  MERMAID 

idea  while  lining  the  pantry  shelves  with  'em.  What's 
money  for,  anyway,  Keturah?" 

"Money,1'  interjected  Mermaid,  "is  to  make  those 
who  haven't  it  want  it  and  those  who  have  it  want 
more." 

"Money,"  said  Miss  Smiley,  sententiously,  "is  to 
hang  on  to  until  you  know  when  to  let  go." 

"Money,"  Ho  Ha  framed  his  own  definition,  "is  only 
to  make  some  other  things  more  valuable." 

"You're  right,  Uncle  Ho,"  Mermaid  conceded.  "If 
Dickie  Hand's  father — your  brother — didn't  have  as 
much  money  as  he  has,  Dickie  would  be  worth  almost 
nothing  to  me." 

"Child!"  Keturah  rebuked  her. 

"Oh,  Aunt  Keturah,  I  don't  mean  that  I  value 
Dickie  for  his  father's  money,"  explained  Mermaid, 
impatiently,  "but  don't  you  see  if  his  father  were  poor 
Dickie  would  be  so — so  unmanageable.  I  shouldn't  be 
able  to  do  a  thing  with  him!  But  his  father's  rather 
rich,  even  if  he  did  lose  a  lot  of  money  a  while  ago,  and  I 
can  just  make  Dickie  behave  himself  by  telling  him 
that  he  can't  possibly  get  any  credit  for  what  he  makes 
of  himself  because  there's  all  that  money  to  help  him. 
That  makes  Dickie  simply  wild,  and  he  says  he'll  be 
somebody  in  spite  of  his  father  and  his  money.  He 
gets  almost  desperate — which  is  quite  necessary,"  she 
added,  thoughtfully.  "The  other  day  he  said,  'Damn 
my  father's  money!  I'll  show  you  it  hasn't  anything  to 


MERMAID  141 

do  with  me!'  Of  course  I  gave  him  the — the  dickens 
but  I  couldn't  help  being  rather  pleased." 

Miss  Smiley  regarded  Mermaid  with  great  sternness, 
but  Ho  Ha's  shoulders  seemed  to  move  queerly.  Fin- 
ally he  choked. 

"If  my  cooking  chokes  you,  Hosea,  you'd  better  not 
eat  it,"  Keturah  said  with  considerable  dignity. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Keturah,"  was  the  humble  reply. 

Mermaid  had  been  eyeing  the  two  as  if  a  surprising 
notion  had  just  occurred  to  her.  Now  she  slipped  on  a 
jacket  and  started  to  leave  the  house,  "I  have  to  see 
Dickie,"  she  explained  to  Miss  Smiley,  "and  get  him 
mad  enough  so  he'll  study  to-night  and  pass  his  chem- 
istry examination  to-morrow."  She  slipped  out. 

Left  alone,  the  man  and  the  woman  said  nothing  for  a 
while.  Miss  Smiley  found  various  supper  preparations 
to  occupy  her.  Ho  Ha  watched  her  with  the  air  of  a 
person  who  wanted  to  say  something  but  found  it  diffi- 
cult to  choose  the  right  words.  At  length,  "  Keturah," 
he  got  out,  "do  you  remember  a  time  when  money  made 
trouble  between  us  ? " 

Miss  Smiley  did  not  answer  him.  She  did  not  look 
at  him. 

"Of  course  you  do,"  Ho  Ha  resumed,  undisturbed, 
apparently,  by  the  silence.  "Now  what  I  would  like  to 
know  is  whether  the  thing  that  made  us  trouble  can't  be 
made  to  mend  it?" 

Still  she  did  not  answer  nor  appear  to  heed  him. 


i42  MERMAID 

"I  know  very  well,"  said  Ho  Ha,  as  if  to  the  furniture, 
and  nodding  at  the  grandfather's  clock  which  stood  at 
one  end  of  the  large  living  room,  "I  know  well  that  my 
fourth  cousin  or  fifth  cousin  or  whoever  it  was  that  left 
me  this  money  left  it  to  me  because  it  belonged  to  me. 
I  suspect  Cousin  What's-the-Name  got  the  money  be- 
cause it  belonged  to  me,  and  got  it  from  the  person  who 
owed  it  to  me  expressly  to  put  in  my  hands.  I'm 
obliged  to  Cousin  Who's-This  as  much  for  trying  to  do 
the  right  thing  as  for  getting  me  the  money.  And  I 
feel,  somehow,  that  Cousin  You-Can-Guess-Whom 
thought  less  about  the  money  than  about  something 
else.  A  cousinly  sort  of  a  cousin,  but  real  cousins  don't 
act  that  way.  Real  cousins  let  each  other  fend  for 
themselves.  But,  anyway,  that's  no  matter,  one  way 
or  t'other.  The  main  thing  is  to  set  things  right.  The 
money  was  only  good  to  show  something  else  that  was 
worth  a  good  deal  more  than  the  money — and  that  was 
a  good  feeling.  A — a  strong  and  enduring  feeling," 
emphasized  Ho  Ha.  "A  feeling  that's  there's  only  one 
word  for,  and  the  word  doesn't  express  it.  Keturah," 
he  exclaimed,  getting  up  and  approaching  the  woman 
who  kept  her  back  so  persistently  toward  him,  "you  and 
I  aren't  young  any  longer.  We — we  were  cheated  out 
of  something,  or  else  we  cheated  ourselves  out  of  some- 
thing, and  it  was  a  good  deal.  But,  Keturah,  it  isn't 
all  gone.  We  didn't  lose  everything.  We  made  a 
mistake,  a  terrible  mistake,  but  it  was  only  a  mistake; 


MERMAID  143 

it  wasn't  an  'ntentional  wrong  either  of  us  did  the  other. 
Keturah,  can't — can't  we  just  salvage  some  happiness 
out  of  the  wreckage?"  He  was  standing  close  to  her 
now. 

Suddenly  he  put  his  arm  awkwardly  and  eagerly  about 
her.  She  had  raised  her  hands  to  her  face,  and  as  she 
took  them  away  he  could  see  she  was  crying.  .  .  . 

Out  of  doors,  Mermaid,  without  any  definite  knowl- 
edge of  what  was  going  on  inside,  strained  her  diplo- 
macy to  the  utmost  to  keep  young  Mr.  Hand  from  en- 
tering the  yard  and  passing  the  living-room  windows 
and  even,  like  as  not,  entering  in  quest  of  food  to  sustain 
his  strength  until  supper.  Dickie  was  a  tall,  thin, 
light-haired  boy  with  a  blond  skin  of  singular  freshness 
and  brown  eyes  of  singular  alterations.  Just  now  they 
showed  a  puzzled  impatience  with  Mermaid's  whims. 

"Will  you  go  to  the  dance  with  me  this  evening?"  he 
demanded. 

Mermaid  shook  her  head.  "I  want  you  to  walk  up 
street  with  me,"  she  announced. 

"But  why?"  interrogated  the  young  man.  "I've 
just  come  from  there,  and  you  say  you  don't  want 
anything." 

"I  want  a  serious  talk  with  you,"  corrected  Mermaid. 
"How  would  you  prepare  H2  SO4,  Dickie?" 

"Hang  chemistry!"  ejaculated  Mr.  Hand.  "Wait 
a  moment  till  I  get  a  cookie."  He  started  into  the 
yard.  Mermaid  made  a  short  dash  and  checked  him. 


i44  MERMAID 

"Nothing  but  yesterday's  crullers,"  she  stated. 

"Well,  a  cruller,  then,"  grumbled  Dickie. 

Mermaid  plucked  at  his  sleeve 

"Dick  Hand,"  she  informed  him,  "you  must  not 
go  in  that  house,  now.  Aunt  Keturah  has  a — a 
caller." 

"  Huh.     I  don't  suppose  he'll  bite  me." 

"Well,  I  will,"  the  exasperated  young  woman  re- 
torted. "I'll  not  speak  to  you  or  go  to  a  party  with 
you,  if  you  don't  come  along  this  minute!"  Then  a 
purely  feminine  inspiration  seized  her.  "Do  as  you 
like,"  she  said,  with  excellent  indifference,  "I  daresay  I 
can  get  Guy  Vanton  or  Tommy " 

Leaving  the  sentence  unfinished,  she  controlled 
herself  with  an  effort  and  half  turned  away.  Dickie 
forgot  the  need  of  sustenance.  Intolerable  feelings 
prompted  the  young  man  to  fall  in  at  her  side.  To- 
gether they  marched  solemnly  northward.  Said  Mr. 
Hand : "  Say,  Mermaid,  I — it — you— 

"They — we — him.     Yes,  Dickie?" 

"You — don't  you  think  we  might  become  engaged?" 

"Why — I  suppose  we  might,  some  day,  Dickie." 

"To-day.  I'm  going  on  eighteen  and  you're  sixteen. 
Lots  of  people  are  engaged  for  years — as  long  as  three 
years.  I'd  be  twenty-one  and  you  nineteen." 

"Yes,  Dickie;  when  you're  twenty-one,  I'll  be  nine- 
teen." 

"But,  Mermaid,  don't  you — don't  you  care?" 


MERMAID  145 

"If  it  would  help  you  pass  that  chemistry  exam,  I'd 
become  engaged  to  you  right  away,  Dickie,"  sighed 
Mermaid.  "Of  course  I  care.  If  you  flunk  that  you 
can't  enter  technical  school  or  anywhere  else." 

"Oh,  damn  the  chemistry!"  roared  Mr.  Hand. 
"Exam,  Damn!" 

"That's  a  short  poem;  remarkable  poem,"  Mermaid 
commented  with  some  coldness.  "Full  of — full  of 
emotion.  Conforms  to  Wordsworth's  definition  of 
poetry,  'emotion  recollected  in  tranquillity.'  But 
you're  not  tranquil  enough,  Dickie.  I  don't  think  I 
want  to  be  engaged  to  any  one  who  swears  regularly." 

"Beg  your  pardon,  'm  sure,"  Mr.  Hand  mumbled, 
sulkily.  "I  won't  say  it  again.  Go  on,  don't  mind 
me!  Go  on,  go  with  Tommy.  He's  almost  twenty. 
Or  Mister  Vanton,  who  is  twenty-two.  I'm  only  about 
eighteen."  He  pulled  out  a  pack  of  cigarettes  and  said 
loftily:  "If  you  don't  mind."  Lifting  his  cap,  he  in- 
clined his  head  and  moved  away. 

Mermaid  looked  after  him  uneasily.  Suddenly  she 
called  out,  "Dickie!" 

He  returned,  but  with  a  certain  effect  of  distant 
politeness. 

"Come  over  after  supper  and  I'll  quiz  you  on  the 
chemistry  best  I  can,"  she  offered. 

He  relaxed  somewhat.  "All  right,"  he  agreed, 
magnanimously.  "I'll  walk  back  with  you,"  he  went 
on,  as  if  uttering  an  after-thought. 


146  MERMAID 

Mermaid  acquiesced.  As  they  entered  the  yard  they 
met  Ho  Ha  coming  out  of  the  house.  He  stopped, 
looking  at  them  happily  and  mysteriously,  and  pro- 
pounded a  riddle  to  Mermaid. 

"If  an  uncle  of  yours,"  he  said,  "were  to  marry 
your  aunt,  what  relation  would  that  make  your  uncle's 
nephew  to  your  aunt's  niece  ? " 

"Friends  once  removed,"  said  Mermaid.  "Oh, 
Uncle  Ho,  I'm  tickled  to  death ! " 

XIV 

At  sixteen  Mermaid  was  not  adequately  to  be  de- 
scribed by  Longfellow's  lines  about  the  maiden 

Standing  with  reluctant  feet 
Where  the  brook  and  river  meet. 

She  was,  without  doubt,  a  girl  still,  despite  her  height 
of  five  feet  two  inches,  despite  the  coiled  beauty  of  her 
coppery  hair  and  the  wise  young  glance  of  her  blue  eyes. 
The  three  freckles  about  her  nose,  the  dimples  when  she 
smiled,  the  faint  colour  in  her  cheeks,  and  the  slender 
straightness  of  her  body  were  wholly  girlish;  so  was  her 
general  attitude  toward  older  people.  It  was  only  when 
she  was  with  certain  boys  slightly  her  seniors  that  a 
sort  of  womanliness  seemed  her  predominant  quality. 
The  nature  of  this  grown-up  atmosphere  varied.  With 
Guy  Vanton,  who  was  twenty-two,  Mermaid  would 


MERMAID  147 

have  appeared  to  most  onlookers  to  be  rather  sisterly. 
With  Tommy  Lupton,  who  was  twenty,  she  was  simply 
an  attractive  young  person  of  the  other  sex.  But  in  her 
attitude  toward  seventeen-to-eighteen-year-old  Richard 
Hand  the  girl  alternated  the  role  of  comrade  and  equal 
with  that  of  motherly  management.  These  variations 
were  not  a  matter  of  ages  but  of  personalities.  They 
were  determined  by  the  fact  that  Guy  Vanton,  from  a 
lonely  boyhood,  was  developing  into  a  lonely  young 
man;  that  Tommy  Lupton  was  perfectly  normal  and  a 
healthy  youth  who  was  Mermaid's  senior  by  an  inter- 
val which,  between  a  boy  and  a  girl  or  a  man  and  a 
woman,  is  without  significance;  by  the  further  fact 
that  Dickie  Hand  needed  special  treatment  and  looking 
after. 

For  Dickie  was  a  gifted  boy  who  was  always  on  a 
seesaw.  He  had  his  ups  and  downs  of  which  his  grasp- 
ing old  father  was  but  seldom  aware,  and  could  have 
viewed  with  nothing  but  contempt.  Nor  was  Dickie 
likely  to  get  much  good  of  his  mother's  philosophy.  All 
her  life  Mrs.  Hand  had  supposed  that  everything  was  for 
the  best;  and  this  opiate  of  age  is  no  drug  to  feed  to 
youth.  Dickie,  whose  spirits  were  either  aloft  in  the 
air  or  bumping  the  ground,  could  not  play  seesaw  alone. 
Mermaid  recognized  as  much  and  seated  herself  on  the 
other  end  of  the  plank.  Occasionally  Dickie  would 
forget  the  equilibrium  necessary  and  would  make  more 
or  less  horizontal  advances  toward  her.  To  restore  the 


I48  MERMAID 

balance  Mermaid  had  to  meet  him  halfway,  but  she 
seized  the  first  opportunity  to  remind  him  that  his  place 
was  at  a  distance. 

At  sixteen  Mermaid  was  halfway  through  High 
School  at  Patchogue.  The  question  of  her  future  re- 
mained undecided.  Cap'n  Smiley,  her  Dad,  and  his 
sister,  Keturah,  quarrelled  mildly  about  it.  The 
keeper  of  the  Lone  Cove  Coast  Guard  Station  did  not 
like  the  notion  of  losing  sight  of  his  adopted  daughter 
except  for  holidays.  Keturah  thought  the  girl  ought 
to  go  away  to  school. 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  John,"  she  counselled  the  keeper. 
"The  child  will  be  home  two  months  or  more  in  summer. 
You  won't  be  on  duty  on  the  beach  then,  and  we  can  all 
four — you  and  she  and  Hosea  and  myself — be  together. 
She's  got  to  have  something  in  her  life  besides  Blue 
Port,  and  she's  got  to  have  something  in  her  life 
besides  those  three  boys.  They're  all  right  as  boys 
go,"  she  added  in  qualification,  "but  I  don't  suppose 
you  want  her  to  stay  here  and  spend  her  life  as  your 
daughter  and  my  niece,  the  Vanton  boy's  sister, 
Tommy  Lupton's  sweetheart,  and  Dickie  Hand's 
mother!" 

"Seems  to  me,  Keturah,"  interjected  her  new  hus- 
band, Ho  Ha,  "being  all  those  things  would  be  con- 
siderable." 

"It  isn't  anything  to  besomebody,"  his  wife  answered. 
"On  the  other  hand,  there's  a  lot  of  tomfoolery  in  the 


MERMAID  149 

talk  of  'doing'  this  and  that.  There's  no  sense  in  doing 
anything  unless  it's  going  to  enable  you  to  be  somebody, 
and  there's  no  sense  in  being  somebody  unless  it  enables 
you  to  do  something." 

"Hold  on,  hold  on,"  protested  Ho  Ha.  "You  go  too 
fast  for  me  to  follow  you.  I  didn't  marry  you  for  your 
philosophy." 

"Well,  you  have  to  take  my  philosophy  along  with 
the  rest,"  said  Keturah,  briskly.  "I  didn't  marry  you 
to  bake  pancakes  every  morning  of  my  life,  but  I  guess 
I'll  have  to." 

"There's  a  lot  of  philosophy  in  pancakes,"  asserted 
Ho  Ha.  "They  go  flip-flop,  and  that's  the  way  life 
goes." 

"That's  why  these  people  who  can  turn  somersaults 
gracefully  always  get  along  well,  eh?"  said  Cap'n 
Smiley  with  a  grin. 

"To  stick  to  the  subject  and  not  to  the  griddle,"  re- 
sumed Keturah,  "the  child  ought  to  go  away  this  fall. 
She  likes  chemistry  and  she  likes  cooking  and  she  mixes 
all  sorts  of  messes  in  both.  I  live  in  constant  dread 
that  she'll  serve  me  some  good-tasting  poison  by  acci- 
dent or  that  the  baked  potatoes  will  explode.  I  don't 
know  anything  about  this  scientific  cookery  you  hear 
so  much  about,  but  Mermaid  might  as  well  get  what 
there  is  in  it.  They  say  the  way  to  a  man's  heart  is 
through  his  stomach,  though  I  must  say  that  the  job 
of  filling  his  stomach  is  about  all  a  woman  could  be 


i5o  MERMAID 

expected  to  handle.'*  She  looked  at  Ho  Ha,  a  notable 
eater. 

"Well,  then,  I  think  she  might  spend  this  summer  on 
the  beach  with  me — with  all  of  us,"  amended  Cap'n 
Smiley.  "I'll  be  there  anyway  this  year.  You  and 
Hosea  and  Mermaid  can  take  the  Biggies  house,  or 
something  more  sizable  if  you  want;  there's  plenty  of 
little  houses  within  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  the  station." 

Mermaid,  entering,  had  heard  her  Dad's  suggestion 
and  clapped  her  hands  in  applause. 

"That'll  be  splendid!"  she  cried.  "Captain  Vanton 
has  taken  a  little  bungalow,  and  Guy  is  going  to  be  over 
there;  Tommy  Lupton  and  Dickie  Hand  are  going  to 
spend  August  camping  on  the  beach;  so  we'll  have  com- 
pany all  summer!" 

The  three  adults  exchanged  amused  glances. 

XV 

Any  girl  of  sixteen  fond  of  chemistry  and  cooking  can 
have  a  first-rate  time  on  the  Great  South  Beach  in  sum- 
mer. Any  girl  of  sixteen  companioned  by  from  one  to 
three  youths  slightly  older  than  herself,  and  of  nicely 
differentiated  ages  and  temperaments,  can  have  a  good 
time  in  summer  anywhere.  Mermaid  was  as  happy  on 
the  beach  as  if  she  had  been  born  there  as,  indeed,  for  all 
practical  purposes,  she  had.  She  was  not  "as  happy  as 
if  she  had  lived  there  all  her  life,"  because  no  one  can  be 
happy  in  a  place  that  has  not  gained  some  charm  by 


MERMAID  151 

contrast  with  other  places.  The  girl  collected  shells 
and  sea  creatures,  drifting  from  chemistry  into  biology 
and  back  again;  she  analyzed  sea  weed  and  admired  it; 
she  divided  with  Keturah  Smiley  the  labour  of  cooking 
meals  to  which  the  salt  air  gave  inimitable  savour;  she 
boated,  she  swam,  waded,  tramped  the  dunes,  and  sunned 
herself  on  the  sands.  She  read  everything  from  the 
habits  of  jellyfish  to  the  loves  of  Maurice  Hewlett's 
heroes  and  heroines,  moving  against  mediaeval  back- 
grounds as  rich  and  varied  as  the  scenes  in  old  tapes- 
tries. She  flirted;  and  once  she  found  herself  in  a  game 
of  hearts. 

Twenty-two-year-old  Guy  Vanton,  rather  short, 
snub-nosed,  with  black  hair  and  attractive  eyes,  had 
gone  into  the  surf  with  her  and,  with  the  ignorance  of 
those  unacquainted  with  that  shore,  had  ventured  too 
far  out.  The  huge  curl  of  a  breaker  caught  him,  for  a 
southeast  wind  was  blowing  and  the  ocean  was  begin- 
ning to  show  whitecaps.  Guy  was  struck  on  the  shoul- 
der by  the  full  force  of  the  falling  wave,  knocked  down, 
buried,  washed  about,  and  dragged  out  as  the  tons  of 
water  flung  upon  the  sloping  sand  shingle  receded 
with  a  baffled  roar.  Mermaid,  higher  up  on  the  slope, 
saw  him  fall.  She  breasted  the  water  and,  as  the 
bottom  sank  away  from  under  her  feet,  struck  out, 
swimming. 

Diving  head  first  through  the  next  huge  sea  she  lifted 
her  head  and  caught  sight  of  Guy  struggling  a  few  yards 


152  MERMAID 

away.  She  got  up  to  him  just  as  another  breaker,  a 
colossal  wall  of  a  dark  glassiness,  towered  for  a  second 
above  them  and  then  toppled  down  with  a  noise  like 
Niagara.  Mermaid  forced  herself  and  Guy  beneath  the 
water,  which  carried  them  some  distance  up  the  beach, 
and  just  then  he  began  to  clutch  her  with  the  grip  of  one 
drowning.  She  broke  his  hold  and,  half  swimming, 
tugging  with  all  her  might,  got  him  to  a  place  where  she 
could  touch  bottom.  Then  she  worked  forward  until 
she  stood,  partly  supporting  him,  in  a  boiling  sea 
waist  high.  She  was  nearly  exhausted  when  she  finally 
dragged  him  up  on  the  beach  beyond  the  wash  of  the 
sea.  It  happened  that  there  was  no  one  near  by;  evi- 
dently they  had  not  been  observed  from  higher  up  on 
the  shore,  so  Mermaid  began  the  task  of  resuscitation. 
Fortunately  Guy  Vanton  opened  his  eyes  almost  im- 
mediately under  her  wearied  ministrations. 

He  did  not  say  anything  as  he  gradually  recovered 
himself.  The  two  sat  beside  each  other  on  the  empty 
beach.  Mermaid,  shivering,  had  thrown  sweaters 
about  herself  and  Guy.  At  length  young  Vanton 
turned  and  looked  in  her  eyes  with  the  curious,  shy, 
wild-animal  look  that  everyone  noticed  in  his  own.  At 
the  same  time  he  seized  her  hand. 

"  Mermaid,  you  saved  my  life — my  life." 
He  spoke  in  wonder,  as  if  there  were  something  in- 
explicable about  it.     Mermaid  smiled  at  him,  white  and 
tired  and  anxious. 


MERMAID  153 

"You're  all  right,  Guy?" 

His  fingers  tightened  on  her  hand.  There  was  some- 
thing steady  in  the  fire  of  his  look. 

"I  owe  you  so  much,"  he  said,  brokenly.  "Almost 
everything.  You  were  my  first  friend.  Five  years 
ago.  I — I've  never  been  able  to  make  it  up  to  you,  and 
now  I  never  shall.  I've — I've  loved  you  all  this  time. 
I — won't  you  let  me  kiss  you?" 

The  last  words  were  perhaps  laughable,  but  some- 
thing that  was  not  a  drop  of  salt  water  from  his  black 
hair  rolled  down  his  cheek.  Mermaid's  own  eyes 
glistened. 

"Of  course — this  once,  Guy,"  she  murmured.  His 
lips  brushed  her  wet  cheek.  She  rose  to  her  feet  a  little 
unsteadily  and  reaching  down  her  arm  half  pulled  him 
to  his.  "They'll  be  frightened  if  we  don't  get  back 
soon,"  she  explained.  "You — you  mustn't  put  your 
arm  about  me,  Guy.  Can  you  walk  all  right?  See 
here,  I'll  put  my  arm  about  you."  She  was  matter- 
of-fact.  They  went  unhurriedly  along  the  shore  to 
where  a  boardwalk  at  the  edge  of  the  dunes  led  to  the 
house  Captain  Vanton  had  rented  for  the  summer. 
There  they  parted,  with  the  appearance  of  unconcern. 
Keturah  Hand  met  Mermaid  at  the  door  of  their 
cottage. 

"Child,  is  it  necessary  for  you  to  hug  that  Vanton  boy 
publicly?"  she  inquired.  Mermaid  explained. 

"How  did  you  bring  him  to?"  asked  her  aunt. 


154  MERMAID 

"I  kissed  him.  Now,  Aunt  Keturah,  it's  all  right. 
There  was  nobody  around  and  he  doesn't  know." 

XVI 

Tommy  Lupton  was  a  great,  tall,  strapping  youth 
with  everything  indeterminate  about  him,  from  the 
colour  of  his  hair  and  eyes  to  his  behaviour.  He  had  no 
visible  ambitions  beyond  becoming  a  bay  man  like  his 
father  and  ultimately  a  surfman  in  one  of  the  Coast 
Guard  Stations  on  the  beach,  preferably  the  one  at 
Lone  Cove  where  John  Smiley  was  keeper  and  his 
father  a  member  of  the  crew.  Since  the  day,  some 
years  earlier,  when  Guy  Vanton  had  thrown  Tommy 
around  in  a  pine-needled  clearing  in  the  woods  about 
Blue  Port,  Tommy  and  Guy  had  been  good  friends, 
so  far  as  too  utterly  unlike  young  men  can  be  fast 
friends.  Neither  fully  understood  the  other.  Mer- 
maid, who  liked  them  both,  had  constantly  to  be  ex- 
plaining Guy  to  Tommy  and  interpreting  Tommy  to 
Guy. 

"Tommy  likes  you  but  thinks  he  ought  not  to,"  she 
told  Guy.  "Tommy  is  the  sort  of  boy  that  thinks  he 
ought  not  to  like  anybody  unless  he  can  admire  him,  too. 
If  Tommy's  best  friend  were  running  against — oh,  well, 
say  Colonel  Roosevelt — for  some  office,  Tommy  would 
vote  for  Roosevelt.  You  see,  he'd  admire  Roosevelt." 

"It's  a  principle,"  elucidated  Guy. 

"It's  unreasonable,"  elucidated  Mermaid. 


MERMAID  155 

"It  is  better  than  just  voting  for  a  man  because  he's 
a  friend  of  yours." 

"Of  course.  But  to  have  to  admire  a  person  in  order 
to  like  him  comfortably  is  just  like — like  a  boy!"  ex- 
claimed the  young  lady.  "Like  a  little  boy,"  she 
added. 

To  the  hero-worshipping  Tommy  she  had  something 
else  to  say. 

"You'll  never  see  how  much  there  is  in  Guy  Vanton 
if  you  keep  looking  for  what  isn't  there,"  she  admon- 
ished him.  Tommy  looked  at  her,  cloudily. 

"I  suppose  it  takes  a  girl  to  see  what  there  is  in  him," 
he  surmised,  jealously.  "You — I  don't  suppose  Guy 
sees  anything  in  me.  I  guess  you  don't,  either.  I 
guess  there  isn't  anything  much  in  me,"  went  on  poor 
young  Mr.  Lupton,  pathetically.  "I  sha'n't  ever 
amount  to  a  lot.  I've  never  been  anywhere,  and  I 
can't  jabber  French,  and  I  never  wrote  poetry  except  on 
a  valentine.  I  hate  school  and  I'm  glad  I'm  through 
with  it.  And  I'd  rather  be  a  Coast  Guard  than  write 
a  book,  as  Guy's  doing,  or  become  a  great  chemical 
engineer,  as  you  say  Dickie  may  some  day.  I'll  never 
be  rich  and  I'll  never  be  famous,  and  you  can't  make  me 
either." 

Mermaid  was  building  things  in  the  sand.  She 
brushed  her  hands  and  looked  at  him  with  a  smile. 

"I  don't  want  to  make  you  anything,  Tommy,"  she 
said.  "Go  on  and  be  a  Coast  Guard.  My  Dad's  a 


iS6  MERMAID 

Coast  Guard.  Your  father's  a  Coast  Guard.  Being  a 
Coast  Guard  is  just  as  good  as  anything  else  and  better 
than  most.  It  all  depends  upon  the  man." 

"Well,  I'm  a  man,"  avowed  Mr.  Lupton.  "And, 
anyway,  you  say  that  now,  but  after  you've  been  away 
at  school  and  all  that  you'll  look  down  on  me.  You 
won't  want  anything  to  do  with  me,  much.  You  won't 
want  me  around.  And  I  won't  be  around,"  he  con- 
cluded. Mermaid  looked  at  him,  briefly,  and  then 
glanced  away.  A  slight  uneasiness  beset  her.  It  was 
justified  when  Tommy  suddenly  reached  over  for  her 
hand,  taking  it  roughly. 

"Mermaid,"  he  said.  He  stopped,  and  then  went  on, 
stammering  a  little:  "You — you  must  know  I  love 
you — like  everything,"  he  finished,  helplessly.  "You 
— of  course  I  can't  expect  you  feel  the  same  way " 

Mermaid,  much  disturbed,  cut  in:  "No,  I  don't, 
Tommy." 

"You  oughtn't  to  interrupt  like  that."  Mr.  Lupton's 
voice  was  boyishly  irritated.  "You — you  wouldn't 
interrupt  Guy  Vanton!  I  can't  expect  you  to  listen  to 
me,  I  suppose.  Maybe  I  haven't  any  right  to  speak." 
He  was  immediately  astonishingly  grown-up  again. 
"You've  got  to  hear  me — at  least,  I  hope  you'll  hear 
me,"  he  went  on,  imploringly.  "I  told  you  you 
couldn't  make  anything  of  me  but  you  could  help  me 
make  something  of  myself." 

A  sixteen-year-old  girl,  listening  to  such  words,  can 


MERMAID  157 

hardly  be  blamed  for  a  slight  sense  of  self-importance. 
It  is  part  of  a  girl's  education,  or  ought  to  be.  Perhaps 
not  at  sixteen;  but  Mermaid  had  already  experienced 
the  self-importance  that  comes  from  handling  rather 
risky  material,  even  though  it  was  only  inert  powder  or 
colourless  acid.  This  was  one  of  those  situations  where 
there  is  no  danger  if  the  substances  are  not  brought  near 
to  a  spark.  She  therefore  dampened  her  sympathy 
before  mixing  it  with  Tommy's  unreserve.  She  felt 
self-importance,  but  she  did  not  abate  her  caution. 
More  than  one  explosion  in  the  laboratory  had  taught 
her  humility.  It  is  fair  to  say  that  she  was  not  con- 
sciously experimenting  and  she  was  not  heartless  when 
she  answered  the  boy. 

"I  don't  want  to  help  you  make  something  of  your- 
self, Tommy.  I  don't  want  to  make  anything  of 
anybody  except  myself.  I'll  have  all  I  can  do,  may- 
be, to  do  that,"  she  continued.  "I — I  like  you,  and 
that's  all.  No,  it  isn't;  I'll  let  you  alone.  There — 
that's  a  good  deal,  isn't  it  ?  It's  supposed  to  be,  from  a 
girl." 

Poor  Tommy  was  in  no  condition  to  jest.  He  picked 
himself  up,  unhappily,  from  the  sand.  For  a  moment 
Mermaid's  mind  ran  back  curiously  to  the  story  that, 
as  a  very  little  girl,  she  had  heard  her  Uncle  Ho  tell  of 
his  boyhood.  Nightly,  through  the  pane  of  a  little 
attic  window  high  up  in  the  hills  of  the  middle  of  Long 
Island,  he  had  seen  the  flash  of  the  Fire  Island  Light- 


i58  MERMAID 

house,  many  miles  distant,  a  beacon  inviting  the  young- 
ster to  adventures  in  the  great  world  whose  shores  it 
guarded.  Mermaid,  who  was  imaginative,  had  often 
.re-lived  those  childish  hours  in  the  dark  attic  invaded 
by  the  beckoning  ray.  As  she  stood  up  now,  gathering 
up  her  sweater  and  one  or  two  books  from  the  beach,  it 
came  home  to  her  that  Tommy  Lupton,  who  was  twenty, 
would  never  undergo  such  an  experience.  Poor  Tommy 
was  not  imaginative;  for  him  no  beacon  flamed  any- 
where; his  whole  idea  of  life  was  work  well-performed,  a 
wife  and  children  (probably),  and  a  comfortable  home  to 
visit  in  his  hours  off  duty.  And  once,  if  fortune  brought 
it  about,  once  in  a  long  lifetime  of  work  and  play  and 
peacefulness,  an  heroic  moment,  one  deed  worthy  of 
admiration,  a  single  act  of  bravery  or  courage  or  de- 
votion that  would  show  the  stuff  that  was  in  him — all 
the  rest  would  be  background.  If  the  moment  never 
came  that  would  not  matter.  The  only  thing  that  mat- 
tered was  to  be  ready  for  it  if  it  should  come. 

Whereas  Mermaid  must  be  forever  seeking  moments 
and  doing  her  part,  when  she  was  ready,  to  create  them. 
There  was  a  profound  difference.  Tommy  stood  on 
guard,  his  back  to  the  rock;  she  would  be  advancing — 
retreating,  too,  sometimes,  no  doubt — but  constantly 
gaining  ground.  There  was  young  Dickie  Hand  with  < 
his  unquestionable  gifts;  he  would  go  forward,  and  go 
far  if — if — he  had  the  right  incentive.  And  Guy  Van- 
ton.  .  .  .  Mermaid  paused  with  a  pang.  In  this 


MERMAID  159 

process  of  definition  it  struck  upon  her  for  the  first  time 
that  Guy  would  neither  go  forward  like  herself  or  Dickie 
Hand  nor  stand  steadfast  like  Tommy;  he  would  shrink 
back.  He  would  conduct  a  well-covered  withdrawal, 
a  leisurely,  unobtrusive  withdrawal;  and  it  would  be  a 
retreat! 

The  pang  was  caused  by  the  knowledge  that  of  the 
three  she  most  nearly  loved  Guy. 

XVII 

The  summer  spent  itself  with  no  further  eventful- 
ness  except  in  the  matter  of  ghosts. 

Many  people,  perhaps  most,  do  not  believe  in  ghosts, 
but  Mermaid  did  and  so  did  her  Dad.  Uncle  Ho  was 
well  acquainted  with  the  principal  ghosts  peopling  the 
beach.  Keturah  Hand  ridiculed  the  idea  of  their  ex- 
istence. In  general,  those  who  had  lived  on  the  beach 
for  any  length  of  time  were  believers  or  of  open  mind; 
those  whose  visits  to  the  beach  had  been  confined  chiefly 
to  all-day  picnics  thought  the  legends  nonsense. 

"Captain  Kidd,"  stated  Keturah,  "may  have  buried 
a  chest  of  treasure  in  the  bald-headed  dune  with  the 
very  steep  slope.  I  know  my  father  used  to  tell  of 
people  digging  there  to  recover  it.  Kidd  was  cer- 
tainly round  about  here  in  the  Quedagh  Merchant  or  the 
Antonio;  and  everybody  knows  that  he  stopped  at 
Gardiner's  Island  and  got  supplies  and  presented  Mrs. 
Gardiner  with  a  bolt  of — calico,  wasn't  it  ?  If  he  buried 


160  MERMAID 

a  chest  in  that  dune  over  there,  he,  or  his  crew,  certainly 
may  have  killed  a  gigantic  negro,  spilling  his  blood  over 
the  chest  so  that  his  wraith  would  guard  the  treasure. 
I  think  it  likely  that  the  crew  did  it.  Seamen  are  al- 
ways so  superstitious."  Here  she  looked  pointedly  at 
her  husband,  an  ex-sailor.  "Hosea  here,  just  because 
they  used  to  cut  a  cross  in  the  mast  to  bring  a  fair  wind, 
started  carving  the  bedpost  the  other  day  so  the  wind 
would  blow  from  the  southwest  instead  of  the  north. 
Kidd  was,  or  had  been,  too  much  of  a  gentleman  to 
entertain  such  low  ideas;  and  if  his  crew  killed  the  negro 
and  spilled  his  blood  I  fancy  he  washed  his  hands 
of  it." 

"Of  the  blood?"  interpolated  Ho  Ha,  innocently. 
His  wife  looked  at  him  sharply  and,  without  answering, 
went  on: 

"But  when  it  comes  to  that  negro's  spirit  guarding 
the  treasure,  and  when  it  comes  to  dark,  swarthy  Span- 
ish ghosts  with  rings  in  their  ears;  and  drowned  sailors 
in  flapping  dungaree  trousers,  and  ghosts  of  old  sea 
captains,  lost  passengers,  and  Heaven  knows  who  else, 
I,  for  one,  don't  take  the  least  stock  in  them." 

"Don't  you  believe  in  the  Duneswoman,  Aunt  Ke- 
turah?"  inquired  Mermaid. 

"No,  nor  in  a  Dunesman,  nor  in  the  Dunes  children, 
unless  you  mean  those  eighteen  children  of  old  Jacob 
Biggies  that  were  named  after  wrecks  and  ragged  as 
ghosts,"  Mrs.  Hand  retorted. 


MERMAID  161 

"But,  Aunt,  I've  seen  the  Duneswoman,"  protested 
Mermaid.  "So  has  Dad." 

"All  you've  seen  is  a  face  and  an  arm,"  corrected 
Mrs.  Hand.  "And  I  can't  find  any  one  else  who  has 
seen  as  much  as  that.  A  face  and  an  arm  are  not  a 
ghost.  They're  a — I  don't  know  what,"  she  finished. 

"A  hallucination,"  Mermaid  offered. 

"A  hallelujah.  That's  what  you  say  when  you  see 
one.  You  say  'Hallelujah!'  "  came  from  Ho  Ha. 

"When  I  see  one  I  may  say  something  even  more 
remarkable,"  his  wife  responded,  grimly. 

It  was  several  nights  later  when  she  awoke  and 
uttered  a  long-drawn  scream  of  terror. 

"Hosea!"  she  cried,  clutching  her  pillow.  "Hosea, 
there's  someone  at  the  window!" 

Ho  Ha  leaped  up  manfully,  went  to  the  window, 
stuck  his  head  through  the  netting  which  was  tacked  on 
as  a  screen,  and  drew  it  in  again. 

"Nonsense,  Keturah,"  he  said,  gently.  "No  one  in 
sight  except  Captain  Vanton  standing  on  the  dune  in 
front  of  his  house."  The  Vanton  cottage  was  a  dune 
away,  but  a  valley  lay  between.  "You— why,  you  must 
have  seen  a  ghost.  Oh,  ho-ho-ho!" 

He  communicated  the  nature  of  the  disturbance  to 
Mermaid  in  the  next  room,  and  when  Cap'n  Smiley,  who 
slept  at  the  station,  came  over  for  breakfast  next  morn- 
ing, there  was  some  chaffing  about  the  ghost  Keturah 
had  seen. 


162  MERMAID 

"I  certainly  saw  something,"  said  Mrs.  Hand,  em- 
phatically. "And  if  it  was  a  ghost  it  was  the  ghost  of  a 
live  man.  It  had  sidewhiskers  exactly  like  Captain 
Vanton!  You  all  know  he  prowls  around  at  night. 
There's  something  mighty  queer  about  it;  but  then, 
everything  about  that  man  is  queer.  When  it  comes 
to  his  looking  in  my  bedroom  window,  though,  I  think 
I  shall  do  something." 

"Oh,  pshaw,  Keturah,"  said  her  brother.  "Vanton 
may  be  a  peculiar  fellow,  but  it's  not  likely  he  walks  by 
your  windows.  At  two  in  the  morning,  anyway." 

"You  seem  to  think  I  have  nothing  he  might  covet, 
John,  but  I  have  a  few  trinkets  that  anybody  would  set 
a  value  to!" 

"Is  that  why  you  hugged  your  pillow?"  inquired  her 
husband,  innocently.  Keturah  gave  a  little  jump  and 
looked  about  her  nervously,  a  performance  entirely 
contrary  to  her  nature.  As  if  she  realized  that  she  had 
betrayed  herself  she  said,  finally:  "Well,  I  wasn't  going 
to  say  anything  about  it  but  I  did  bring  my  stones  over 
here.  I  felt  it  wasn't  safe  to  leave  'em  in  Blue  Port,  and 
of  course  I  sleep  with  'em  under  my  head." 

"Stones?"  exclaimed  Mermaid  in  mystification. 
"You  don't  mean  jewels,  do  you,  Aunt  Keturah?" 

"Of  course  I  mean  jewels,"  replied  Mrs.  Hand,  with 
some  asperity.  "I've  never  told  you  anything  about 
them — young  people  get  their  heads  turned  with  such 
things — but  I  have  every  one  of  the  stones  that  belonged 


MERMAID  163 

to  my  aunt,  Keturah  Hawkins,  Captain  Hawkins's  wife; 
and  I  also  have  the  stones  that  belong  in  settings  in  the 
curios  and  things  in  our  parlour.  There's  quite  a  lot 
of  them,  and  if  I  weren't  used  to  a  hard  pillow  I  daresay 
I'd  not  be  able  to  sleep  a  wink" 

"Oh,  Aunt,  may  I  see  them?" 

"I  suppose  you  may,  though  it's  a  lot  of  trouble  to 
get  them  out.  It's  risky,  too,  for  some  of  the  littler 
ones  might  roll  away  and  get  lost,"  commented  Mrs. 
Hand. 

After  breakfast  she  brought  out  her  pillow  and  ex- 
posed the  contents  to  the  two  men  and  the  girl.  John 
Smiley  had  seen  the  jewels,  though  not  for  many  years. 
Ho  Ha  knew  of  their  existence,  but  had  never  seen  them 
and  had  supposed  them  secreted  in  Blue  Port.  To 
Mermaid  their  very  existence  was  a  revelation.,  and  their 
beauty  a  greater  one. 

All  kinds  of  jewels  seemed  to  be  represented,  and 
there  were  also  Eastern  stones  which  none  of  the  four 
could  name.  Sapphires  were  especially  abundant,  very 
large  ones,  of  darkest  blue.  They  had  been  Keturah 
Hawkins's  favourites,  but  Mermaid  worshipped  the 
emeralds  which  she  knew  she  could  have  worn  in  her 
hair,  and  the  diamonds  which  would  have  been  no  more 
brilliant  than  her  blue  eyes.  There  were  wonderful 
pearls  which  needed  to  be  worn  to  regain  their  finest 
lustre,  and  there  were  rubies  of  as  dark  a  hue  as  the 
blood  that  must  have  been  shed  for  them.  The  ma- 


164  MERMAID 

jority  of  the  gems  were  loose;  the  pearls  were  roped, 
however,  and  there  were  a  few  bracelets  and  other  sim- 
ple ornaments.  All  the  settings  were  old  and  Eastern, 
suggestive  of  bare  arms  and  bare  necks — bare  ankles, 
too.  At  least  one  of  the  ornaments  was  an  anklet,  they 
conjectured.  Where  Captain  Hawkins  had  got  them 
Keturah  Hand  was  unable  to  say.  He  had,  she  sup- 
posed, picked  them  up  at  various  times  and  in  many 
places.  He  had  visited,  in  his  career,  every  port  from 
Bombay  to  Tientsin;  Ceylon,  Madagascar,  and  South 
Africa;  Peru  he  had  touched  at  more  than  once.  And 
he  had  sometimes  done  business  by  barter. 

After  they  had  admired  the  jewels  Keturah,  with 
Mermaid's  help,  checked  them  off  on  a  list  she  had  and 
restored  them  to  their  hiding  place. 

The  next  night,  after  they  had  spent  the  day  on  the 
bay  in  Cap'n  Smiley's  small  sailboat,  pillow  and  all  were 
gone. 

XVIII 

The  loss  of  the  jewels  affected  Keturah  Hand 
strangely.  At  first  it  made  her  ill,  but  soon  she  was  not 
only  well,  but  better  than  she  had  been  for  a  long  time. 
She  declared  herself  actually  relieved,  in  a  sense,  to  be 
rid  of  the  stones.  They  had  been  a  constant  worriment 
for  years.  Now  she  did  not  have  the  care  and  anxiety 
of  them — and  she  knew  they  were  in  safe  hands. 

"Any  one  who  steals  them  is  going  to  take  pretty  good 


MERMAID  165 

care  of  them,"  she  declared.     "And  I  think  I  know  who 
stole  them,  and  why." 

"Was  it  the  ghost  of  one  of  Kidd's  pirates?"  asked 
Mermaid,  upon  whom  the  theft  of  the  jewels  had  seemed 
to  have  a  more  persistently  depressing  effect  than  it  had 
had  upon  her  aunt. 

"He  may  have  been  one  of  Kidd's  pirates  in  a  pre- 
vious incarnation,  and  he  may  have  been  Kidd  himself 
in  an  earlier  life,"  responded  Keturah.  "At  present 
he's  a  retired  sea  captain  whose  story  wouldn't  look 
pretty  in  print,  I  suspect.  Not  that  it  will  ever  get 
printed,"  she  added.  "He  took  them  because — 
She  broke  off.  "I  don't  know  a**  I'm  called  upon  to 
air  my  guesses,"  she  explained.  "  1  in  not  a  detective  in 
a  detective  story  and  I'll  not  do  any  deducing  out  loud." 

Both  Ho  Ha  and  John  Smiley  were  much  upset  by  the 
disappearance  of  the  stones,  though  both  felt  called 
upon  to  remonstrate  with  Keturah  when  she  said,  quite 
calmly,  that  Captain  Vanton  had  got  what  he  was  after. 

"If  there's  the  slightest  shred  of  evidence  that  Cap- 
tain Vanton  took  them,  Hosea  and  I  can  handle  him," 
her  brother  told  her.  "You  won't  let  the  theft  be 
known,  and  you  won't  hire  a  detective.  You  won't  tell 
us  anything  that  points  to  Vanton." 

"Because  I  can't,"  cut  in  Keturah.  "I'm  not  like 
a  good  many  women.  I  don't  mistake  my  intuitions 
for  evidence.  I  just  feel  that  he  has  them — and  I  don't 
much  care  if  he  has.  I  also  feel  that  he  won't  break  them 


166  MERMAID 

up  and  sell  them,  and  that  eventually  they  will  get 
where  they  belong,  as  nearly  as  possible.  Jewels  aren't 
like  any  other  kind  of  property,  and  everybody  who  has 
much  to  do  with  them  knows  it.  I'm  not  superstitious, 
but  you  don't  have  to  be  superstitious  to  believe  that  a 
sort  of  curse  attends  the  possession  of  most  really  valu- 
able gems  whenever  they're  not  in  the  right  hands. 
They  don't  rightly  belong  to  me,  never  did.  As  I  say, 
it's  no  use  to  hand  down  jewels  like  other  property. 
My  aunt,  to  whom  they  belonged  as  rightfully  as  any 
one  else,  had  no  more  sense  than  to  leave  them  to  me 
along  with  her  land  and  furniture.  I've  always  known 
they  weren't  for  me,  but  what  could  I  do  about  it? 
Nothing,  except  wait  for  them  to  get  into  the  right 
hands  or  throw  them  in  the  bay.  Maybe  they've  got 
into  the  right  hands  now.  If  they  haven't,  they'll  make 
whoever's  got  'em  trouble  enough  until  they  do.  If 
they  belong  to  him  it  won't  matter  how  he  came  by 
them,  or  whether  he  deserves  'em,  or  whether  he  is  a 
good  man  or  a  devil;  but  if  they  don't  belong  in  his 
hands,  he  may  be  a  living  saint  and  still  be  sorrier  than 
the  worst  sinner." 

Ho  Ha  and  Cap'n  Smiley  affected  to  treat  this  argu- 
ment as  foolishness,  but  something  in  it  appealed  to  the 
mysticism  in  Mermaid.  It  fitted  in  with  what  she  had 
observed  of  the  illogicality  of  life,  and  she  was  readier 
than  many  an  older  person  to  believe  that  the  world  is 
ruled  as  much  by  sentiment  as  by  law,  and  that  life  is  a 


MERMAID  167 

series  of  compromises  only  for  those  who  can't  accept 
its  contradictions,  and  go  on  with  their  work. 

She  expressed  this  view  to  Guy  Vanton  without 
mentioning  the  loss  of  the  stones. 

It  was  Mermaid's  last  day  on  the  beach.  In  a  week 
she  would  be  in  New  York,  taking  special  courses  at 
Columbia  and  perhaps  elsewhere.  She  was  going  in 
for  cooking  and  chemistry,  the  chemistry  of  foods,  and 
later  she  might  take  some  medical  courses  leading  to  a 
study  of  the  chemistry  of  digestion. 

"The  chemistry  of  the  human  body,"  she  said  to  Guy, 
"is  a  job  for  the  next  fifty  years." 

Guy  considered,  lazily.  "If  you  like  it,  I  suppose," 
he  said,  reflectively.  "  I  wish  I  knew  enough  chemistry 
to  analyze  my  father,  for  instance.  Not  his  digestion, 
which  is  perfect,  but  his  mind.  But  I  think  the  best 
approach  to  the  mind  is  still  alchemy.  The  philoso- 
pher's stone  probably  exists,  only  we've  always  been  on 
the  wrong  track  in  hunting  it.  It  would  be  an  idea  that 
would  transmute  base-mindedness  to  rare-mindedness, 
and  not  base  metals  to  gold.  My  father  needs  that 
kind  of  a  philosopher's  stone;  perhaps  I  do,  too.  We're 
very  unlike,  you  know;  often  it  seems  to  me  as  if  he 
weren't  my  father  at  all.  Sometimes  I  think  he  hates 
me,  but  even  if  he  did — there  are  ties  hate  can't  break." 
His  voice  lowered  and  his  queer  eyes  looked  into  the  dis- 
tance. "Some  day,"  he  said,  "some  day,  Mermaid, 
I'll  tell  you,  maybe You  pulled  me  out  once,  you 


168  MERMAID 

know."  He  looked  at  her  with  a  painful  appeal.  His 
eyes  were  those  of  a  wild  fawn.  An  almost  overpower- 
ing desire  to  answer  that  appeal  swept  through  the  girl, 
met  the  solid  wall  of  her  final  doubt  of  him,  and  was 
broken  to  pieces.  She  gave  his  hand  a  friendly  squeeze. 
"Good-bye,"  she  said,  and  left  him. 


PART  THREE 


IN  THE  room,  besides  the  people,  there  was  a  coffin 
and  a  black  flag  decorated  with  the  skull  and  cross- 
bones  of  buccaneers — or  fictioneers.  Every  once 
in  a  while  persons  went  down  a  ladder  to  a  dim,  smoky 
room  where  heads  bumped  the  ceiling  and  where  casks 
and  kegs  and  straw-covered  wine  bottles  stood  and 
hung  about  in  an  ornamental  sort  of  way.  Mediterra- 
nean-looking servitors  went  to  and  fro  in  the  subterra- 
nean crypt  or  chamber  with  great  mugs  of  ginger  ale. 
Visitors  usually  bent  over  the  large,  dark  table  in  the 
centre  whereon  lay  a  carefully  executed  map — the  map 
of  "Treasure  Island."  The  men  wore  their  hair  long, 
the  women  wore  theirs  bobbed.  Candles,  the  only 
light,  threw  grotesque  shadows.  Occasionally  a  waiter 
sang,  "Pour,  oh,  pour  the  pirate  sherry"  from  "The 
Pirates  of  Penzance"  or  "Yo-ho-ho!  and  a  bottle  of 
rum."  Somewhere  in  obscure  darkness  a  parrot 
squawked.  The  sounds  were  favourably  construed  into 
cries  of  "  Pieces  of  eight !  Pieces  of  eight ! " 

Mermaid,  otherwise  Mary  Smiley,  wore  coiled  upon 
her  head  such  a  magnificence  of  dark,  red-gold  hair  as  to 

169 


170  MERMAID 

make  her  the  target  of  envious  glances  from  cropped 
young  women  all  about  her.  Of  these  looks  she  seemed 
completely  unaware,  but  they  excited  the  amusement  of 
her  companion.  Dick  Hand  did  not  fit  in  with  the 
general  Bohemian  scheme  of  the  place.  He  was  in 
Greenwich  Village  but  not  of  it.  His  proper  environ- 
ment was  a  certain  office  much  farther  down  town  in 
New  York,  on  Broadway  a  little  above  Bowling  Green. 
There,  in  the  region  of  tall  buildings  at  once  rigid  and 
supple  and  perfectly  self-possessed  as  only  skyscrapers 
can  be,  Dick  worked  by  day.  By  night  he  pleasured 
about  town.  He  was  by  no  means  addicted  to  the 
Pirates'  Den,  nor  to  the  Purple  Pup,  nor  Polly's,  but 
Mermaid,  in  her  last  year  of  special  study  at  Columbia, 
had  expressed  a  desire  to  visit — or,  rather,  revisit — the 
Village.  So  they  had  come  down  on  a  bus  to  Washing- 
ton Square  and  then  fared  along  afoot.  Mermaid  had 
been  expressing  her  satisfaction  with  the  evening. 

"How  badly  they  do  this  sort  of  thing  here,"  she  said, 
glancing  again  about  her.  "You  and  I,  Dickie, 
wouldn't  be  so  unoriginal,  I  hope!" 

Dickie,  who  had  no  instinct  in  these  matters,  asked, 
"Are  they  unoriginal?" 

"Of  course."  She  smiled  at  him  and  two  tiny  shadows 
marked  the  dimples  in  her  cheeks.  "They  have  simply 
no  ideas.  Don't  you  see  how  religiously  they  have 
copied  all  the  traditional  stuff  and  accepted  all  the 
traditional  ideas  of  what  a  pirates'  den  ought  to  be? 


MERMAID  171 

A  real  pirates'  den  was  never  like  this.  Pirates  lived  in 
a  ship's  fo'c's'le  or,  on  occasion,  in  a  cave;  or  they  went 
glitteringly  along  a  white  beach  such  as  we  have  at 
home  across  the  bay  from  Blue  Port.  They  did  not 
live  in  a  litter  of  empty  casks;  an  empty  bottle  was  only 
good  to  heave  overboard  unless  you  had  occasion  to 
break  it  over  a  comrade's  head.  Pirates  never  had  a 
skillfully  executed  chart.  Usually  they  had  no  chart 
at  all;  only  certain  sailing  directions  and  a  cross  bearing. 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  writing  'Treasure  Island,' 
burlesqued  an  ancient,  if  not  very  honourable,  profes- 
sion." 

"Never  thought  about  it,"  responded  Dick,  care- 
lessly. "You  may  be  right.  But  what  do  you  know 
about  pirates,  anyway.  Where  do  you  get  all  this 
stuff?" 

"There  are  just  as  many  pirates  as  ever  there  were," 
asserted  the  young  woman.  "There's  Captain  Van- 
ton  out  home.  He  is  a  typical  pirate.  The  pirates  who 
visited  the  Great  South  Beach  at  one  time  or  another 
are  still  there,  off  and  on." 

"Oh,  say,  Mermaid.  You  don't  really  believe  in 
ghosts,  do  you?" 

"I  don't  have  to  believe  in  them,  Dickie,  I  have 
seen  them." 

"On  the  beach,  home?" 

"On  the  beach,  home,  and  here  in  New  York,  too." 

"What  were  they?" 


172  MERMAID 

"Just  people,  Dickie.  I  don't  pretend  they  were 
flesh  and  blood.  I  don't  pretend  they  ever  spoke  to 
me  or  looked  at  me.  They  looked  through  me,  some- 
times." 

"  But,  Mermaid,  you  know  it's  silly." 

"But,  Dickie,  I  know  it's  not." 

Young  Hand  finished  his  ginger  ale  and  made  a  face 
at  the  mug.  Then  he  asked:  "Well,  how  do  you  ac- 
count for  *em?" 

"  Have  I  got  to  account  for  them,  Dickie  ? " 

"  I  mean,  why  can't  I  see  them  ? " 

"  How  do  you  know  you  can't  ? " 

"I  never  have." 

"That  doesn't  prove  anything — it  doesn't  prove  you 
never  will.  Dick,  see  here,  go  back  to  your  mathe- 
matics. There's  the  fourth  dimension.  All  we  can 
see  and  feel  has  only  three  dimensions — length,  breadth, 
and  thickness  or  height — but  mathematics  tells  you 
things  may  exist  which  measure  four  ways  instead  of 
three." 

"But  I  can't  see  'em;  neither  can  you  or  anybody 
else." 

"Of  course.  But  you  can  see  representations  of 
them.  A  house  on  paper  is  not  a  house,  but  a  picture 
of  one.  A  ghost  may  only  be  a  representation,  a  sort  of 
picture,  a  projection  of  Something  or  Somebody  that 
measures  four  ways.  A  house  measures  three  ways 
and  you  can  put  it,  after  a  fashion,  on  a  sheet  of  paper 


MERMAID  173 

where  it  measures  only  two  ways.  Why  can't  a  ghost 
be  a  three-dimensional " 

"Tommy  Lupton  never  saw  a  ghost,"  interrupted 
Dick,  with  a  smile.  "Can  you  picture  Tommy  pa- 
trolling 'the  beach  at  night  as  a  dutiful  Coast  Guard 
and  coming  upon  a  projection  of  Captain  Kidd?" 

"Certainly.  Tommy  is  extremely  likely  to  meet 
Captain  Vanton,"  said  Mermaid,  promptly. 

"You  mean  that  Captain  Vanton  is  Captain  Kidd 
living  on  earth  again  ? "  jested  the  young  man. 

"A  reincarnation  ?  No.  He  might  be  the  shadow  of 
Captain  Kidd,  though.  He  might  be  the  three-dimen- 
sional shadow  of  a  four-dimensional  creature." 

"Come  off!  You  said  awhile  ago  that  you  didn't 
pretend  the  ghosts  you  saw  were  flesh  and  blood." 

"Is  Captain  Vanton  flesh  and  blood?"  asked  Mer- 
maid. "  Did  you  ever  pinch  him  or  see  him  bleed  ? " 

Dick  stared  at  her  with  pain  and  disapproval. 

"Mermaid,  what  a  crazy  thing  to  suggest!  And 
how — how  confoundedly  gruesome!  Sounds  like  Poe. 
We've  been  living  with  a  spectre  all  these  years  out  in 
Blue  Port.  A  spectre  with  an  invalid  wife  nobody  ever 
sees.  Seems  to  me  Mrs.  Vanton  is  more  likely  to  be  the 
ghost.  And  a  spectre  with  a  son.  He's  flesh  and  blood, 
for  Tommy  Lupton  once  punched  his  head.  Guy's 
flesh  and  blood,  Mermaid." 

A  colour  overspread  the  young  woman's  cheek.  "I 
know  that,"  she  said. 


I74  MERMAID 

Then  with  a  triumphant  thought  Hand  exclaimed: 
"Besides,  lots  of  people  have  heard  Captain  Vanton 
talk.  What  do  you  say  to  that?  You  said  ghosts 
didn't  talk." 

"I  said  I  had  never  had  them  speak  to  me,"  she 
corrected  him.  "I  said  they  looked  through  you,  and 
not  at  you.  Captain  Vanton  does  not  look  at  you." 

Dick  felt  aggrieved.  "I  didn't  think  you'd  quibble, 
Mermaid,"  he  said.  "It  isn't  like  you." 

Mermaid  reached  up  and  patted  a  coil  of  her  hair. 
Then  she  rested  her  cheek  on  that  hand  and,  reach- 
ing across  the  table,  closed  the  other  gently  over 
Dick's. 

"I'm  not  quibbling,  Dickie,"  she  declared.  "I 
mean  just  what  I  say.  Captain  Vanton  is  a  ghost  to  me 
and  that's  all  about  it.  I  don't  have  to  pretend.  Once, 
years  ago,  he  came  to  see  Aunt  Keturah  and  I  answered 
the  door.  I  don't  remember  whether  he  looked  at  me 
then  or  not.  It  doesn't  matter.  If  we  can  see  ghosts, 
ghosts  can  certainly  see  us.  They  can  certainly  speak 
to  us,  too,  if  they  wish;  though  whether  we  can  speak  to 
them  I'm  not  so  sure.  You've  got  the  wrong  idea  en- 
tirely. 

"A  ghost  is  simply  a  person  or  thing  that  joins  you 
with  the  past,  the  unremembered  or  unrecorded  or  un- 
known past.  Somewhere,  sometime,  at  some  place,  and 
in  some  manner,  Captain  Vanton  and  I  have  met.  I 
don't  know  it;  I  feel  it.  You're  a  chemical  engineer 


MERMAID  175 

and  I'm  a  chemist,  too,  of  a  sort.  I'm  getting  into 
chemico-therapy,  the  chemistry  of  the  body,  and 
chemical  agencies  in  healing.  Now  chemistry  is  all 
right,  in  fact,  it's  wonderful,  but  it  doesn't  explain 
everything  and  it  never  will.  You  may  say  that's  be- 
cause there's  a  lot  yet  to  be  explored.  There  is,  but 
when  it  has  all  been  dug  up  and  tested,  something  will 
still  remain  in  the  dark.  The  world  will  always  have 
its  ghosts." 

Dick  looked  at  her  sympathetically.  "If  you  were 
any  one  else,  Mermaid,  I'd  say  you  were  nutty,'*  he 
vouchsafed.  "I'll  admit  this  place  is  enough  to  make  a 
person  go  plumb  insane.  Look  at  that  coffin!  And 
look  at  these  freaks  about  us ! " 

Mermaid  smiled.  By  the  flickering  of  the  candles 
he  could  see  three  freckles,  the  three  he  always  remem- 
bered, about  her  nose,  rather  high  up,  a  decorative 
arrangement  to  call  attention,  perhaps,  to  the  brilliant 
blue  of  her  eyes.  He  was  struck  again  with  the  sense 
of  her  charm  and  unusualness.  He  had  never  met  an- 
other girl  like  her,  and  he  knew  he  never  would.  There 
couldn't  be,  anywhere.  What  other  girl,  versed  in  ex- 
act science,  would  argue  earnestly  for  the  existence  of 
ghosts?  Dick  knew  that  she  meant  what  she  was  say- 
ing. He  thought  to  himself:  "It's  only  the  difficulty  of 
getting  it  over  to  me.  There  aren't  the  words,  I  sup- 
pose. She'd  always  be  two  jumps  ahead  of  you!" 
Aloud  he  said:  "Then  your  ghost  may  be  someone 


i76  MERMAID 

else's  flesh  and  blood.  Ghost — flesh — blood — coffin — 
skull  and  crossbones — nightmare  people.  This  is  the 
life!" 

Mermaid  laughed.  There  was  a  ring  in  her  laugh  of 
complete  surrender  to  mirth.  A  joyful  surrender.  She 
said:  "I  am  worried  about  Aunt  Keturah.  She  hasn't 
been  well.  I'm  going  home  as  soon  as  college  closes.  I 
don't  suppose  I'll  see  you  again  soon,  Dickie." 

"Why  not?"  said  her  companion.  "Come  West 
with  me — you  and  she — to  San  Francisco  this  summer. 
I've  a  water  purification  job  across  the  bay  in  Marin 
County.  It  would  do  your  aunt  a  lot  of  good  to  see 
California.  There'll  be  days  when  I'll  have  nothing  to 
do — waiting  around  while  tests  are  going  on  and  con- 
tracts are  being  drawn.  We  could  go  to  Palo  Alto  and 
Monterey  and  Lake  Tahoe.  Perhaps  farther." 

Mermaid  considered. 

"I  have  a  particular  wish  to  visit  San  Francisco,"  she 
said.  "It  has  to  do  with  ghosts.  I'll  try  to  persuade 
her,  Dickie." 

Mr.  Hand  was  elated.  They  rose  and  went  out  into 
the  coolness  of  the  springtime  night.  They  walked,  and 
found  themselves  presently  in  Washington  Square. 
Something  in  the  moment  took  Dick  Hand  by  the 
throat.  In  a  shadowy  lane,  a  little  apart  from  the 
benches  of  people,  his  words  dulled  by  the  rumble  of 
the  Fifth  Avenue  omnibuses,  he  took  Mermaid's  hand, 
his  fingers  closing  over  it  with  intensity. 


MERMAID  177 

"Can't  we — can't  we  make  it  a  honeymoon  trip, 
Mermaid  ? "  he  asked. 

He  could  just  see  the  slight  movement  of  her  sil- 
houetted head.  She  murmured:  "I'm  afraid  not, 
Dickie.  I — I  want  to  be  very  sure." 

He  unclasped  her  hand  slowly  and  they  walked  to  one 
of  the  green  monsters,  vain  of  their  size  and  path  and 
importance,  which  take  people  uptown. 

II 

College  closed.  Mermaid  went  home.  She  found 
Keturah  Hand  in  "poor  health,"  but  a  diagnosis  of  any 
specific  complaint  seemed  difficult. 

"Old  age  and  remorse,  my  girl,"  her  aunt  assured 
her.  "Thinking  of  all  the  things  I've  done  I  might 
better  not  have  done,  or  have  done  differently." 

"Why,  any  one  can  do  that,"  Mermaid  answered.  "I 
looked  for  you  to  develop  some  interesting  ailment, 
Aunt  Keturah,  something  new  and  original  that  I  might 
exercise  my  knowledge  upon.  I  am  now  certified  to  be 
competent  to  analyze  you.  I  know  all  the  diets.  If 
there  is  anything  you'd  like  particularly  to  eat,  don't 
eat  it." 

"You  remind  me  of  John  Pogginson  of  Patchogue," 
protested  Mrs.  Hand.  "An  up-to-date  doctor  put 
him  on  a  diet  some  time  ago.  But  instead  of  telling 
John  what  he  couldn't  eat  he  gave  him  a  list  of  all  the 
things  he  could  eat.  There  were  eighty-seven  of  them; 


i78  MERMAID 

and  in  the  eighty-seven  were  things  John  Pogginson  had 
never  heard  of.  He  had  a  wonderful  time.  But  his 
wife  almost  died  of  indigestion.  She  said  it  wasn't  what 
she  ate,  but  seeing  the  things  John  could  eat,  that  made 
her  ill." 

The  two  women  sat  down  that  night  for  what 
Keturah  called  "a  long  talk."  Mrs.  Hand  wanted 
first  to  discuss  Mermaid's  plans;  but  Mermaid  said 
she  hadn't  any. 

"Thanks  to  you,"  she  told  her  aunt,  "I've  been  able 
to  get  what  I  wanted;  but  I  confess  I  don't  know  yet 
what  I  want  to  do  with  it.  I  want  to  go  to  work,  of 
course,  and  I  hope  I  can  get  into  experimental  work  of 
some  kind.  Perhaps  at  the  Rockefeller  Institute,  per- 
haps elsewhere.  Chemicals  won't  cure  all  the  ills  flesh 
is  heir  to,  but  they  will  cure  a  lot  more  than  we  know 
about.  I  don't  care  about  a  career,  that  is,  I  don't 
care  about  making  a  world-startling  discovery  or 
getting  particularly  rich  or  especially  famous.  I  do 
care  about  getting  a  reasonable  amount  of  happiness 
and  satisfaction  out  of  life;  and  that  means  being  busy 
at  something  congenial  to  you.  And  going  ahead  a 
little  in  one  direction  or  another." 

"I  hope  you'll  marry,"  said  Mrs.  Hand,  abruptly. 

"  I  hope  so,  too,"  assented  Mermaid.  "  If  I  can  be  so 
fortunate  as  to  find  the  right  man,  or  if  some  man  can  be 
fortunate  enough  to  find  me  the  right  woman,  or — well, 
both.  We've  both  got  to  find  each  other,  I  suppose." 


MERMAID  179 

"Children,"  said  Mrs.  Hand,  with  condensation. 

"The  more  the  merrier."  Mermaid  did  not  speak 
lightly.  Some  deepening  of  her  voice  took  all  the  flip- 
pancy from  the  words. 

"You'll  have  money,  my  money,"  pursued  Keturah 
Hand.  "Eventually;  it  goes  to  John  first.  He's  a 
good  brother  to  me  and  he's  been  a  good  father  to  you, 
as  good  as  he  could  have  been  to  his  own  flesh  and  blood. 
You  knowthe  story?"  she  asked,  with  harsh  suddenness. 

"Dad  has  told  me,"  Mermaid  replied,  quietly.  "It 
is  so  many  years  ago  that  he  has  no  thought  but  that 
his  wife  and  his  own  daughter  are  dead." 

"I  have  something  to  answer  for  in  that  connection," 
her  aunt  said,  and  in  spite  of  the  harshness  with  which 
she  spoke,  her  voice  trembled.  "I  made  Mary  Smiley, 
that  was  Mary  Rogers,  very  unhappy.  I  thought  her 
unfit  to  be  John's  wife.  I — I  rubbed  it  into  her  that 
she  was  unfit.  Little,  silly,  childish,  frivolous  creature. 
How  much  I  am  to  blame  for  her  running  away  with 
her  baby  I  don't  know — never  shall,  I  suppose,  until 
the  time  comes  to  answer  for  it." 

"Whatever  you  said  to  her,  the  facts  remain,"  the 
girl  commented.  "Actions  not  only  speak  louder  than 
words,  they  talk  the  universal  language.  She  ran 
away." 

"I  think  John  felt  that,"  said  Keturah.  "He  has  a 
strict  sense  of  justice  and  she  wronged  it.  It  was  the 
child.  That  cut  him  to  the  heart,  and  no  wonder. 


180  MERMAID 

After  five  years  you  were  washed  ashore.  I've  always 
believed  in  miracles  since  that  day." 

Mermaid  nodded. 

"When  you  study  science,  Aunt,"  she  said,  confidingly, 
"you  come  to  believe  in  miracles  as  a  matter  of  course. 
That  is,  unless  you  have  one  of  these  impossible  minds 
that  thinks  a  thing  more  wonderful  than  the  explana- 
tion. It's  the  explanation  of  everything  that's  really 
miraculous.  For  instance,  you  used  to  scoff  at  Dad  and 
myself  because  we  saw  ghosts.  There  was  the  Dunes- 
woman " 

"You  wrote  me  that  it  was  an  effect  of  phosphor " 

Mrs.  Hand  paused,  helplessly. 

"Phosphorescence,"  supplied  Mermaid,  "the  won- 
derful glow  you  see  sometimes  in  sea  water.  It's  rare 
as  far  north  as  this  but  very  common  in  the  tropics. 
But  to  say  it  is  an  effect  of  phosphorescence  doesn't  ex- 
plain it,  except  to  the  impossible,  narrow  little  mind. 
The  real  explanation  lies  in  the  mind  of  the  person 
seeing  it.  If  it  were  just  a  peculiar  phosphorescent 
outline  everybody  should  see  it — everybody  who  was 
around.  Dad  and  I  see  it;  the  others  don't.  Do  you 
know  why  ?" 

Keturah  hesitated,  then  shook  her  head. 

"It  is  something  in  common,"  Mermaid  told  her. 
"There  is,  or  was,  someone  who  knew  us  both,  and  who 
becomes  manifest  to  us  both  in  that  way.  It's  like  two 
people  seeing  the  same  ghost.  Why  should  the  ghost 


MERMAID  181 

appear  in  that  way?  I  can't  tell  you.  Perhaps  the 
person  was  drowned.  Why  should  the  Duneswoman 
appear  to  us  at  all  ?  Perhaps  to  witness  to  something. 
We  may  never  discover  what;  and  then  again  the  day 
may  come  when  that  vision  will  be  the  last  impalpable 
evidence  necessary  to  make  something  clear.  Then  the 
Duneswoman  may  make  complete  the  explanation  of  a 
surprising  but  perfectly  ordinary  set  of  facts;  and  the 
explanation,  and  not  the  facts  themselves,  will  make  up 
the  miracle." 

"I  guess  likely  you're  right  enough,"  surmised  Mrs. 
Hand,  "though  IHn  not  sure  I  follow  you  all  through. 
I'm  a  matter-of-fact  kind  of  a  person.  That's  why  any 
one  like  Captain  Vanton  gives  me  the  creeps  and  gets  on 
my  nerves  so.  I  don't  know  what  he  does  to  that 
wife  of  his,  or  what  he  has  done,  but  I  don't  wonder  we 
never  see  anything  of  her.  She  must  be  a  wreck, 
living  with  that  man.  And  he's  ruining  that  boy." 

"Guy?J*  asked  Mermaid.  A  quick  ear  would  have 
caught  the  peculiar  note  in  her  voice. 

1  "Guy  goes  around  with  a  hang-dog  look.  He  never 
speaks  to  any  one.  He  lives  like  a  hermit,  and  his 
father'll  make  him  as  bad  as  himself,"  stated  Keturah, 
with  conviction. 

"I  must  go  see  him,"  said  the  girl.  Her  voice  was 
deep  and  vibrant.  "  I  must  see  his  father." 

"His  father  has  got  Aunt  Keturah's  jewels,"  an- 
nounced Mrs.  Hand.  "I've  been  sure  of  it  ever  since 


182  MERMAID 

the  day  they  disappeared  over  to  the  beach.  How  he 
knew  about  them  I  don't  pretend  to  say;  but  as  he 
followed  Captain  John  Hawkins  in  the  command  of  the 
'China  Castle  he  must  have  come  to  knowledge  of  them 
some  way  or  other.  Do  you  remember  when  you  were 
not  more  than  eleven  his  coming  to  call  here  ? " 

"I've  never  forgotten  it." 

"He  said  a  Captain  King  was  dead  and  that  he  had 
killed  him.  He  said  this  Captain  King  wouldn't  trouble 
us  any  longer — your  father  and  me.  Your  father  re- 
membered then  that  one  of  the  crew  from  the  wreck  of 
the  ship,  the  ship  you  were  saved  from,  had  talked  of  a 
Captain  King  when  he  was  dying  and  of  a  little  girl  that 
must  have  been  you.  So  we  thought — your  father 
thought,  anyway — that  Captain  Vanton  might  have 
known  something  about  you."  She  reached  over  and 
took  Mermaid's  hand,  awkwardly.  "He  went  to  see 
him,  but  Captain  Vanton  couldn't  or  wouldn't  tell  him 
anything."  Keturah  paused  and  sighed. 

"Captain  Vanton  told  Dickie  Hand's  father  about 
the  death  of  Captain  King,"  said  Mermaid,  surprising 
her  aunt.  "  Dickie  once  told  me  so." 

"I  want  to  know!"  exclaimed  Keturah.  She  was 
silent  for  several  moments  in  busy  speculation. 

"What  do  you  make  of  it  all?"  she  asked,  finally, 
lifting  her  head.  Mermaid,  who  had  been  looking 
steadfastly  at  the  wall,  her  hands  clasped  behind  her 
head,  the  whiteness  of  her  arm  gleaming  against  the 


MERMAID  183 

rich  colouring  of  her  hair,  spoke  without  looking  at  her 
aunt,  without  shifting  her  pose. 

"I  make  something  of  it,"  she  said,  "and  I  am 
going  to  find  out — something.  I  may  not  find  out 
the  truth  of  it  all,  but  I  will  at  least  find  out  if  I  am 
wrong." 

Ill 

Captain  Vanton  looked  much  less  like  a  ghost  than  a 
man  who  had  seen  a  ghost  when  Mermaid  confronted 
him  in  the  mahogany  and  teakwood  parlour.  She  had 
with  her  a  black  bag,  as  if  she  were  about  to  take  a 
journey.  She  seated  herself  easily  and  her  manner  was 
composed,  though  her  heart  was  beating  rapidly.  The 
short,  thick  figure  of  the  retired  seaman  moved  back 
and  forth  across  the  polished  and  whitened  floor  of  the 
room  as  it  had  moved  across  the  whitened  and  polished 
afterdeck  of  tall  ships.  His  spreading  sidewhiskers 
with  their  misleading  air  of  benevolence  could  not  con- 
tradict the  disturbance  in  his  reddened  eyes.  He  had 
not  looked  at  his  caller  since  her  arrival,  and  he  did  not 
now.  Stranger  still,  he  had  not  spoken  to  her.  A  few 
gestures  and  she  was  in  the  parlour,  seated;  the  door  was 
closed  and  they  were  alone. 

"Captain  Vanton,"  began  Mermaid.  She  paused  an 
instant,  then  went  on:  "I  am  grown  up  and  it  is  time 
that  you  told  me  my  story." 

She  saw  the  hands  of  the  mariner,  clasped  behind  him 


1 84  MERMAID 

as  he  paced  away  from  her,  tighten.  She  knew  she  must 
say  more  to  make  him  address  her. 

"Captain  King "  she  began. 

The  heavy  tread  was  cut  short.  He  was  standing  in 
front  of  her.  He  was  speaking  in  a  throaty  voice  as  if 
his  words  had  to  carry  against  the  force  of  a  powerful 
gale  to  reach  her. 

"Don't  speak  that  man's  name,"  he  was  saying. 

"You  must  tell  me  my  story,"  Mermaid  repeated. 

He  stood  there  irresolutely,  an  abject  figure  of  shame, 
a  sea  captain  unready  with  an  instant  decision,  an  order, 
a  command,  a  shouted  epithet.  He  hesitated;  and 
when  he  would  have  put  his  helm  hard  over  it  was  too 
late. 

"My  aunt  and  I  are  going  to  San  Francisco,"  the  girl 
was  saying.  "In  San  Francisco  they  will  remember 
Captain  King." 

And  now  his  hands  twisted  and  shook,  and  again  he 
turned  toward  her.  He  muttered:  "I  will  tell  you  all 
that  matters." 

But  he  could  not  begin.  He  cleared  his  throat  and 
shook  his  head.  His  red  and  tormented  eyes  looked 
her  way.  She  found  herself  looking  directly  into  them 
— and  then  away.  She  could  not  read  all  they  held; 
and  she  knew  she  did  not  want  to. 

"You  find  it  difficult.     Correct  me  if  I  go  wrong." 

He  made  a  sound  that  could  be  taken  for  assent. 

"I  was  in  San  Francisco  as  a  very  small  child,"  Mer- 


MERMAID  185 

maid  began.  "This  I  know  because  the  ship,  from  the 
wreck  of  which  I  was  saved,  sailed  from  there.  But  I 
know  it  quite  as  much  because  Guy  has  told  me  about 
the  city  and  it  recalls  something  to  me.  For  a  long  time 
it  recalled  nothing  distinct — only  a  vague  sense  of  the 
familiar.  I  have  thought  and  thought  about  it,  and 
some  time  ago  there  came  to  me  a  definite  image  of 
something  in  the  past.  It  was  the  figure  of  a  man,  a 
sea  captain  like  yourself,  coming  and  going  to  the  house 
or  wherever  it  was  that  I  had  my  home.  I  don't  re- 
member anything  about  it.  I  only  remember  that 
there  was  someone  in  it — it  must  have  been  my 
mother — who  had  a  childish  voice.  .  .  .  And  she 
was  pretty,  too,  in  a  girlish  way;  at  least  I  suppose  she 
was.  I  remember  no  faces;  I  remember  no  figures 
except  the  single  figure  of  the  seaman  who  came  and 
went;  I  remember  only  the  childish  voice  and  the  sense 
of  prettiness  about  me.  One  other  thing  I  do  remember 
and  that  was  seasons  of  fright.  I  think  they  were 
connected  with  the  coming  and  going  of  that  seaman. 
He  was,  no  doubt,  the  man  you  have  refused  to  let  me 
name.  Very  well;  it  is  unnecessary  to  name  him. 
What  I  want  to  know  is — did  he  live  with  my  mother?" 

The  man  in  front  of  her  had  been  standing  stock 
still.  Still  with  his  back  turned  to  her  he  answered, 
"Yes." 

"  He  was  not  my  father  ? " 

"No." 


186  MERMAID 

"Who  was?" 

"John  Smiley." 

The  girl  showed  no  surprise,  only  relief.  She  drew 
a  deep  breath,  then  murmured:  "Thank  God  for  that!" 

From  the  motionless  figure  facing  away  from  her 
came  a  question:  "You  knew?'* 

"I  was  certain." 

"How?" 

"Both  my  father  and  I  have  seen  her." 

"  Since — since ? " 

"Since  her  death." 

The  standing  bulk  of  Captain  Vanton  quivered.  He 
reached  for  the  arm  of  a  chair  and  collapsed  in  it. 
He  kept  his  back  to  his  visitor. 

"She  was  drowned  at  sea?"  Mermaid  put  the 
question  in  a  shaky  voice. 

"Aye,"  he  answered,  and  the  unexpected  word  had 
in  it  a  ring  of  terror. 

Suddenly  Mermaid  found  herself  sobbing  silently 
in  a  terrible  anguish  of  thankfulness  and  wonder  and 
sorrow.  The  stifled  sound  of  her  weeping  filled  the 
room.  Captain  Vanton  made  no  move  but  sat  with 
his  head  fallen  on  his  breast,  the  white  sidewhiskers 
concealing  his  profile.  His  breast  rose  and  fell  slowly. 

The  girl  got  control  of  herself,  and  said :  "I  have  what 
I  need  to  know.  The  rest  does  not  matter,  except  as  it 
concerns — Guy."  Her  voice  trembled  again  and  her 
eyes  filled.  "Your  own  story — that's  your  affair. 


MERMAID  187 

But  you  have  no  right  to  ruin  his  life  because  of  it — and 
that's  what  you  are  doing!" 

Something  of  the  awful  sternness  of  the  patriarch 
sounded  in  his  reply:  "I  will  save  him." 

The  words  stung  the  girl.  In  a  moment  he  had 
become  a  silly  and  tyrannical  and  destructive  old  man 
with  a  fixed  idea,  a  delusion — the  worst  possible  delu- 
sion, a  delusion  of  a  duty  to  be  performed. 

"  You  are  making  of  him  a  hermit,  a  recluse,  a  solitary 
and  distorted  young  man,"  she  said.  Her  voice  was 
like  the  lash  of  a  whip.  "You  have  poisoned  his  mind, 
and  you  will  permanently  poison  his  peace  and  happi- 
ness. Everything  that  would  shame  him  you  have 
told  him;  without  knowing  what  it  is  you  have  told  him, 
I  have  sensed  that.  And  this  has  been  going  on  for 
years.  You  have  forbidden  him  to  associate  with  other 
boys  and  other  young  men.  The  sunlight  of  compan- 
ionship you  have  shut  away  from  him.  Here  in  this 
desolate  house,  shrouded  in  these  wintry  evergreens, 
in  the  dark,  in  the  damp,  in  the  company  of  a  sick 
woman  and  an  old  man  full  of  years  and  past  evil,  you 
have  kept  him  and  tried  to  form  him.  If  he  is  not 
wholly  misshapen  it  is  through  no  omission  of  yours. 
It  must  stop!" 

She  was  thinking  to  herself,  in  her  rage,  that  of  all 
madnesses  a  monomania  was  the  most  terrible  to  con- 
tend with.  She  was  in  no  doubt  as  to  the  form  of  his 
malady.  He  was  obsessed  by  a  notion  of  saving  Guy 


1 88  MERMAID 

from  the  snare  of  the  world's  wickedness  into  which 
he  himself  had  fallen,  into  which  he  had  seen  so  many 
men  fall.  He  had  seen  the  trap  spring  and  close  on 
himself  and  others.  Not  many  had  ever  escaped  it; 
those  who  had  were  mutilated  for  life.  There  had  been 
this  mutilation  in  his  own  life.  He  would  not  trust 
the  boy  to  walk  warily,  he  would  not  trust  himself 
to  teach  him  to  avoid  the  snare.  He  would  keep  him 
where  he  could  not  walk  into  it  if  he  had  to  seal  him 
in  a  living  tomb  to  accomplish  his  purpose. 

With  many  a  boy  the  undertaking  would  have  been 
a  preposterous  impossibility.  With  a  sensitive  youth 
of  a  poetic  and  dreamy  temperament,  under  absolute 
control  from  earliest  childhood,  the  thing  was  feasible; 
more,  it  was  being  done.  Mermaid  recalled  with  a 
sense  of  pitiful  compunction  Guy's  strange  eyes  with 
their  wild  animal  look,  the  most  characteristic  thing 
about  him.  But  at  least  then,  in  his  teens,  he  had  held 
up  his  head,  and  looked  about  him.  Now  .  .  . 
She  had  passed  him  on  the  street  twice  and  he  had  not 
even  seen  her.  She  had  spoken  to  him  once  and  he  had 
hardly  been  articulate  in  his  reply;  had  seemed  to  hate 
and  distrust  her,  not  as  Mermaid,  not  as  a  woman,  but 
as  a  person  of  his  own  kind. 

She  came  back  to  a  consciousness  of  what  Guy's 
father,  after  an  interval  of  silence,  was  saying: 

".     .     .     I  have  told  him  only  the  truth." 

"The  truth!    You  have  not  told  him  the  truth,  nor 


MERMAID  189 

shown  him  the  truth.  What  you  have  told  him  is 
worse  than  a  lie.  For  a  lie  is  like  certain  substances 
which  are  poisonous  only  in  large  doses.  Strychnine, 
for  example.  Tiny  quantities,  a  nerve  tonic;  larger 
quantities,  convulsions  and  death.  But  a  little  truth 
is  a  deadly  poison,  always.  And  the  only  antidote  is 
more  truth  and  more  and  more!  There  cannot  be  too 
much  of  it;  but  you  have  never  given  him  anything 
but  the  truth  of  two  or  three  persons  out  of  the  millions 
of  men  and  women  that  dwell  on  earth." 

She  rose  from  her  chair,  picked  up  the  black  bag  she 
had  brought  with  her,  walked  around  deliberately  in 
front  of  the  seated  man  and  opening  it  showed  him  the 
contents — jewels.  Roped  pearls  and  lovely  sapphires, 
Oriental  rubies,  diamonds,  unnamable  stones — all 
the  blazing  wealth  of  gems  that  Keturah  Hand  had 
kept  stuffed  in  a  pillow  for  many  years  and  had  lost 
one  summer  on  the  beach. 

"See,"  said  Mermaid,  quietly.  "Here  is  a  ransom. 
Take  it.  Let  Guy  go  free.  Let  him  live  the  life  of  a 
man.  Let  him  stumble  and  sin  and  suffer,  pick  himself 
up,  breathe  the  fresh  air,  and  feel  the  warmth  of  the 
sunshine.  You,  who  choose  to  live  here  in  the  darkness, 
can  be  happy  in  the  artificial  light  of — these." 

The  man's  face  became  red  in  a  ghastly  setting  of 
white  whiskers.  He  struggled  to  sit  up.  He  put  out 
one  thick  hand  and  clutched  a  rope  of  pearls.  Then, 
with  a  great  effort,  he  unclenched  his  hand  and  drew 


!I90  MERMAID 

it  slowly  back  to  his  side  as  if  he  were  dragging  a  heavy 
weight  back  with  it.  He  managed  to  articulate  one 
word: 

"Where?" 

"They  were  once  Keturah  Hawkins's,"  she  told  him. 
At  the  name  his  shoulders  twitched.  "They  were 
coveted  by  the  mate  of  the  China  Castle.  He  insulted 
their  owner,  and  for  it  he  was  flogged.  I  do  not  know 
what  crimes  they  may  have  been  responsible  for  before 
they  came  into  John  Hawkins's  hands.  But  they  have 
been  responsible,  since  that  time,  for  a  flogging,  the 
wreck  of  one  life,  the  destruction  of  one  soul,  and  now 
I  offer  them  to  you  to  save  a  boy's  happiness.  Will 
you  take  them  and  be  satisfied  ?" 

"They  spell  ruin,"  he  muttered,  thickly.  He  made 
no  gesture.  Mermaid  quietly  closed  the  black  bag. 

"Since  you  will  not  take  them  as  a  ransom  I  will 
return  them,"  she  said,  "and  offer  another  ransom  in 
their  stead."  Her  low  utterance  was  without  the  note 
of  determination  and  equally  without  assurance  of 
success. 

He  heard  the  door  close  after  her.  Then  the  man 
called  Captain  Vanton  did  an  unpremeditated  thing. 
He  went  to  a  drawer  in  the  desk  at  the  end  of  the  ma- 
hogany and  teakwood  cabin-parlour,  drew  out  a 
bundle  of  manuscript,  wrote  carefully  a  signature  upon 
it,  and  the  date,  then  thrust  it  back.  Again  he  drew  out 
something,  this  time  a  pistol,  and  shot  himself  dead. 


MERMAID  191 

IV 

The  first  thing  to  note  about  the  manuscript  left 
by  the  late  Captain  Buel  Vanton,  a  resident  of  Blue 
Port,  Long  Island,  who  inexplicably  shot  himself  dead 
after  affixing  the  date,  was  unquestionably  the  name, 
written  at  the  end  of  the  document  a  few  seconds  before 
the  author  took  leave  of  it — and  a  good  many  other 
things — forever.  Captain  Vanton  signed  his  narrative, 
for  a  narrative  it  turned  out  to  be  upon  examination, 
with  what  had,  at  first,  the  appearance  of  a  pen  name. 
It  was  entirely  legible,  and  read:  "Jacob  King." 

Not  a  name  of  any  distinction.  It  suggested  abso- 
lutely nothing  to  the  coroner.  In  fact,  it  would  have 
been  regarded  as  a  piece  of  annoying  irrelevance  on  the 
part  of  the  late  Captain  Vanton  had  not  his  son,  a 
young  fellow  with  a  hang-dog  look,  said  sullenly  that 
it  was  the  real  name  of  the  writer.  The  coroner  had 
been  mightily  puzzled  and  not  a  little  suspicious. 
Whereupon  Guy  Vanton  had  suggested,  still  more 
sullenly,  that  the  manuscript  itself  might  supply  an 
explanation  fuller  and  more  convincing  than  his  own 
assertion.  The  coroner  thereupon  turned  his  attention 
again  to  the  document  before  him,  and  read  it — a  serious 
occupation  that  took  him  as  long  as  an  ordinary  inquest. 
Yet,  in  a  way,  the  occupation  saved  trouble  if  not  time, 
for  after  his  perusal  the  coroner  decided  that  it  was 
"a  plain  case  of  suicide — man  plumb  crazy — must  have 


192  MERMAID 

been  crazy  for  years";  and  that  an  inquest  was  wholly 
unnecessary.  As  the  manuscript  on  which  the  late 
Captain  Vanton  (or  Jacob  King)  had  lavished  so  much 
literary  skill  (or  insane  invention)  thus  became,  through 
the  coroner's  intervention,  an  official  record,  any  one 
caring  to  hunt  through  the  dusty  and  sneeze-provoking 
accumulation  of  papers  in  the  coroner's  office  could 
read  it  in  full,  from  beginning  to  end,  written,  as  it 
had  been,  at  various  times  and  in  various  places,  in 
several  colours  of  ink,  but  always  in  the  same  small, 
slanting,  distinctive  hand.  So  perused,  it  ran  as  follows: 


I,  Jacob  King,  was  born  in  New  York  City.  I  ran  away 
to  sea  at  the  age  of  14,  and  at  19  I  was  a  ship's  officer. 

At  19  I  was  a  man,  not  a  young  man  but  a  grown  man, 
and  any  one  who  has  followed  the  sea  will  know  what  that 
means.  The  sea  ripens  a  man  early,  ripens  him  and  fixes 
his  mind  for  good  or  for  evil,  according  to  his  capacity  to 
understand  the  life  about  him.  Nowadays  on  shore  I  see 
young  fellows  of  19  that  are  not  much  better  than  children, 
except  that  they  have  stretched  enough  to  wear  long  trousers. 
That  is  the  life  of  the  land,  where  such  a  thing  as  responsibil- 
ity seems  to  be  unknown  until  men  have  begun  to  decay. 
I  was  not  that  way;  and  if  I  had  had  a  better  mind  I  might 
have  made  a  success  of  life.  I  think  I  would  have  been  suc- 
cessful ashore,  anyway,  for  I  was  quick  and  clever  and  never 
shirked  work;  but  mostly  I  think  so  because  I  was  hard  and 
young  and  brazen.  I  knew  how  to  fight  and  I  knew  how  to 


MERMAID  193 

bluff.  Ashore,  it  would  have  been  enough  to  know  how  to 
bluff,  I  should  not  have  had  to  fight.  At  sea  a  man  cannot 
succeed,  permanently,  without  actual  worth  and  fighting, 
and  winning.  On  the  land,  so  far  as  my  observation  goes^ 
actual  worth  is  by  no  means  necessary  to  success.  Any 
number  of  things  may  make  a  landsman  successful;  he  may 
acquire  money  or  fame  and  his  success  is  measured  by  what 
of  these  things  he  has  acquired;  it  is  not  measured  by  the 
stuff  in  him,  as  it  is  at  sea,  but  by  what  he  gets  hold  of;  and 
if  he  cannot  keep  hold  of  it  he  becomes  a  failure  again,  though 
he  is  no  worse  a  man  than  before.  Landsmen  do  not  value 
the  man  but  what  he  has.  By  that  measure  I  have  become, 
I  suppose,  a  pretty  successful  person  ashore;  I,  who  was  a 
disgrace  to  salt  water,  can  hold  up  my  head  here  with  some 
of  the  best  of  them.  I  am  not  famous,  it  is  true,  but  I  have 
a  fortune  of  $200,000  more  or  less,  a  pretty  considerable 
figure  in  these  days. 

At  19  I  was  a  ship's  officer  and  at  21  I  was  a  first  mate. 
It  was  then,  on  my  first  passage  as  chief  officer,  that  the  first 
of  a  series  of  events  which  I  have  to  relate  occurred.  The 
ship  on  which  I  was  then  was  the  fast  clipper  China  Castle, 
John  Hawkins,  master,  and  the  passage  was  from  Boston 
to  Shanghai.  Captain  Hawkins  was  a  young  man  in  years, 
like  myself — about  26,  I  think.  He  had  sailed  the  China 
Castle  between  New  York  and  San  Francisco  at  the  time  of 
the  California  gold  rush  and  was  now  taking  her  out  on  her 
first  passage  to  the  East.  At  last  she  was  to  be  put  into  the 
tea  trade,  for  which  she  had  been  built,  but  from  which  she 
had  been  taken  from  her  very  launching  for  the  immensely 
profitable  California  route.  Besides  myself  and  Captain 


I94  MERMAID 

Hawkins  there  was  in  the  cabin  Mrs.  Hawkins,  his  young 
wife;  she  is  the  only  other  person  aft  who  matters  in  my  story. 
She  had  not  been  married  to  Captain  Hawkins  long,  only  a 
year  or  so,  and  this  was  her  first  passage  with  him  and  a  sort 
of  deferred  honeymoon. 

Mrs.  Hawkins  was  a  beautiful  woman,  a  young  woman,  of 
course.  She  was,  I  think,  two  or  three  years  younger  than 
her  husband  and  about  as  much  older  than  I.  She  was  very 
pleasant,  as  agreeable  as  she  was  beautiful;  and  she  did  not 
stand  on  ceremony  as  a  captain's  wife  is  likely  to  do.  I 
suppose  this  was  partly  because  it  was  her  first  voyage  and 
it  may  have  been  partly  because  we  were  all  about  the  same 
age;  but  it  was  mainly  her  own  gracious  nature.  I,  for  my 
part,  had  not  seen  or  met  many  women  and  I  had  never  seen 
or  met  any  woman  like  her.  From  a  boy  I  had  been  to  sea, 
and  while  I  had  been  on  ships  where  the  captains  had  their 
wives  along  they  had  never  been  women  of  my  own  age. 
They  had  never  been  good-looking  women,  let  alone  being 
half  so  lovely  as  Keturah  Hawkins,  and  I  had  never  been  aft 
as  first  officer  and  privileged  to  associate  with  them  on  terms 
of  something  resembling  social  equality.  Of  course,  social 
equality  is  impossible  on  board  a  ship;  but  in  so  far  as  it 
could  be  brought  about  Mrs.  Hawkins  brought  it  about 
in  the  cabin  of  the  China  Castle.  That  and  her  beauty 
turned  my  head.  She  used  to  wear  splendid  jewels  that 
her  husband  had  got  for  her,  though  they  were  nothing  to 
what  he  procured  afterward,  I  judge,  in  the  Orient.  She 
had  very  fine  blue  eyes,  a  bright  and  flashing  blue  such  as 
you  see  in  midocean,  particularly  in  the  tropics  in  fine  weather, 
the  blue  of  deepest  water.  Her  hair  was  a  dark  red,  in  great 


MERMAID  195 

coils  as  thick  as  the  heaviest  rope  cable  aboard  the  ship, 
and  her  skin  was  a  white  that  did  not  seem  to  tan  or  lose  its 
whiteness  from  wind  or  weather,  though  sometimes  a  faint 
freckle  or  two  would  appear  upon  it.  Her  grandniece,  though 
but  a  young  girl,  is  wonderfully  like  her  in  every  appearance. 
The  sight  of  this  girl  tears  me  to  pieces.  It  brings  it  all  back. 
It  brings  back  the  hour  in  which  I  went  clean  out  of  my 
senses,  sitting  there  alone  in  the  cabin  with  Keturah 
Hawkins.  She  did  not  scream  or  struggle,  but  in  a  mo- 
ment she  ran  away  and  bolted  herself  in  her  room.  Of 
course  when  the  Captain  came  down  from  the  poop  deck, 
where  his  regular  pacing  had  been  audible  over  our  heads 
all  this  time,  she  told  him. 

I  don't  know  why  he  didn't  shoot  me  dead;  well,  yes,  I 
think  I  do.  I  think  his  wife  interceded  for  me  and  I  think 
he  believed  the  proper  punishment  could  only  be  something 
everlastingly  shameful  and  as  painful  as  possible.  He  had 
me  triced  up  by  the  thumbs  and  flogged  in  the  sight  of  the 
crew.  I  was  flogged  till  I  lost  consciousness.  It  was  two 
days  before  I  could  stand  a  watch.  My  only  idea  then  was 
to  kill  him.  I  told  him  so,  which  was  an  unnecessary  thing 
to  do.  He  took  precautions,  however,  such  as  seeing  that 
I  had  no  weapons,  and  never  giving  me  an  opportunity  to 
attack  him.  Mrs.  Hawkins  kept  to  her  room;  I  had  my  work 
to  do,  and  that  went  on  as  though  nothing  had  happened. 
No  private  affair,  no  matter  how  serious,  relaxes  the  discipline 
of  the  sea.  When  I  told  Captain  Hawkins  that  I  would  kill 
him  some  day  he  only  looked  at  me  and  said :  "You're  a  good 
ship's  officer  but  you're  a  disgrace  to  salt  water.  If  you 
want  to  kill  a  man,  the  first  man  for  you  to  kill  is  Jacob  King." 


i96  MERMAID 

I  thought  he  meant  suicide — "go  drown  yourself"  as 
the  contemptuous  phrase  of  the  fo'c's'le  puts  it.  It  was  years 
before  I  saw  what  he  meant  by  that  "If  you  want  to  kill  a 
man,  the  first  man  for  you  to  kill  is  Jacob  King."  I  know 
now  just  what  he  was  driving  at.  I  have  killed  Jacob  King. 
I  have  killed  my  man.  I  won't  need  to  kill  another. 

But  that  has  come  a  long  time  after.  A  long  time.  Too 
long,  maybe. 

When  we  reached  Shanghai  I  got  my  discharge,  of  course, 
and  a  good  discharge  it  was,  for  I  had  done  my  work  well  and 
Captain  Hawkins,  as  fine  a  seaman  as  ever  lived,  was  strictly 
just.  I  stayed  ashore  awhile  and  lived  an  evil  life,  drinking 
and  smoking  opium  and  consorting  with  thieves  and  ticket- 
of-leave  men  and  all  the  riffraff  of  an  Eastern  seaport.  All 
the  while  I  was  haunted  by  the  remembrance  of  Keturah 
Hawkins.  Drunk  or  sober,  sane  or  in  opium  dreams,  I 
saw  her — saw  her  great  cables  of  dark  red  hair,  her  white  skin, 
her  dazzling  blue  eyes,  her  delightful  smile  that  she  had 
smiled  expressly  for  the  benefit  of  the  young  and  capable 
first  mate  of  her  husband's  fine  ship.  If  I  had  been  able 
to  do  it  I  would  have  possessed  myself  of  her  even  then.  I 
would  have  killed  her  husband,  I  would  have  killed  every  one 
aboard  the  China  Castle,  to  have  her.  In  opium  dreams  I 
did  kill  them  all;  I  slew  all  Shanghai  and  burned  the  city  and 
launched  as  many  ships  to  pursue  her  as  were  launched  to 
bring  back  Helen  from  ancient  Troy.  All  dreams,  all  mad 
delusions!  I  was  a  fevered,  burning,  babbling,  stupefied 
wretch  of  a  sailor  with  no  money  in  my  pockets  and  nothing 
to  fall  back  upon  but  a  splendid  ruggedness  of  body  and  a 
good  discharge  as  first  mate. 


MERMAID  197 

The  good  discharge  was  sufficient  to  get  me  a  berth  on  a 
ship  sailing  for  San  Francisco.  Once  at  sea  again  I  was  all 
right  except  in  my  mind.  That  had  been  all  twisted  and 
distorted  by  the  punishment  inflicted  upon  me  by  Captain 
Hawkins.  I  couldn't  get  over  the  disgrace  of  it;  which  was 
deserved,  of  course,  though  I  didn't  think  so.  I  kept  thinking 
of  myself  as  a  man  who  had  been  shamed  beyond  all  deserving. 
I  was  convinced  that  I  had  merely  been  too  rashly  assuming, 
and  that  if  I  had  gone  about  it  differently  or  had  taken  more 
time,  had  not  acted  so  impulsively All  this  was  self- 
deception,  of  course,  and  it  degraded  Keturah  Hawkins, 
in  my  thoughts,  at  least.  Perhaps  I  thought  that  if  I  could 
not  lift  myself  up  to  her  I  could  pull  her  down  to  my  level. 
What  I  didn't  see  was  that  a  good  woman — or  a  good  man 
either,  likely — cannot  be  lowered  by  whatever  baseness 
any  one  may  choose  to  think  or  say.  The  only  person  that 
is  lowered  is  the  thinker  or  the  sayer.  You'll  find  this  and 
a  whole  lot  more  coiled  away  in  that  poem  of  Emerson's 
about  Brahma:  "I  am  the  thinker  and  the  thought,"  or 
something  like  that,  it  runs.  I  don't  know  whether  a  man 
makes  the  thought  that  passes  through  his  mind,  but  I  do 
know  that  the  thought  makes  the  man.  At  least,  it  made 
me.  I  was  still  Jacob  King,  but  I  wasn't  the  same  Jacob 
King.  Something  in  me  had  been  poisoned.  The  slow 
poisoning  of ?  The  swiftest  poison  is  not  the  most  sure. 

I  was  very  bad,  I  mean  mentally,  when  I  got  to  San  Fran- 
cisco, and  the  life  I  led  there  did  not  mend  me.  Gradually 
as  I  kept  seeing  the  image  of  Keturah  Hawkins  in  all  states 
of  steep  and  waking,  at  all  hours  and  under  the  influence  of 
all  sorts  of  drugs  and  in  the  midst  of  all  kinds  of  surroundings 


I98  MERMAID 

the  image  itself  faded;  or  changed  and  coarsened.  I  did 
not  notice  that  the  dazzling  blue,  as  of  sunshine  trying  vainly 
to  shaft  through  unfathomable  depths,  had  disappeared 
from  her  eyes,  but  soon  I  could  no  longer  see  those  heavy 
cables  of  dark  red  hair,  made  up  of  so  many  twisted  strands, 
nor  the  wonderful  milky  whiteness  of  the  skin.  The  features 
became  indistinct,  and  soon  I  saw  clearly  nothing  but  the 
magnificent  jewels  she  had  worn — the  ropes  of  pearls  that 
took  lustre  from  her  skin;  the  emeralds  that  shone  in  green 
drops  in  the  rich,  dark,  smouldering  red  of  her  hair;  the 
sapphires  that  seemed  to  condense  and  make  permanent  the 
more  brilliant  blue  of  her  eyes.  About  these  gems  that  she 
had  worn  there  was  the  glitter,  the  undying  glitter  of  hard 
stones.  All  that  was  lovely,  all  that  was  spiritual,  all  that 
was  human  in  the  vision  of  her  perished;  and  still  the  splen- 
dour of  those  jewels  remained.  I  used  to  see  her  as  an  im- 
perceptible outline — no  face,  no  rounded  arm,  no  wealth  of 
hair,  just  an  imagined  outline  with  here  and  there  certain 
gorgeous  jewels  in  an  ornamental  and  decorative  arrange- 
ment— fastened  on  the  air.  At  such  times  I  went  clean 
crazy,  but  I  could  do  nothing.  I  was  getting  too  besotted 
to  straighten  up  for  any  length  of  time.  And  there  wasn't 
any  cure.  How  could  there  be?  I  couldn't  cure  myself. 
I  was  being  poisoned  by  the  irremediable  past.  How  abolish 
the  past  ?  It's  all  very  well  to  talk  about  living  a  thing  down, 
but  the  only  thing  that  can  be  lived  down  is  the  thing  that 
wasn't  entirely  so.  My  past  was. 

It  was  in  San  Francisco  that  I  got  acquainted  with  a  man 
named  Hosea  Hand  and  came  into  a  strange  relationship 
with  his  brother,  one  Richard  Hand.  Hosea  Hand  was  a 


MERMAID  199 

sailor,  one  of  the  crew  of  the  ship  on  which  I  had  come  from 
Shanghai.  He  was  younger  than  I,  and  after  we  got  to 
San  Francisco  and  the  ship's  discipline  relaxed  I  saw  a  good 
deal  of  him,  first  and  last.  One  day  in  a  lonely  mood  he 
told  me  his  story.  His  brother  had  cheated  him  out  of  an 
inheritance,  or  so  he  figured,  and  he  had  run  away  to  sea, 
like  myself,  as  a  boy.  Two  things  about  the  story  struck 
me:  his  brother,  if  what  he  said  was  true,  might  pay  money 
to  have  him  stay  away  from  home — not  that  Hosea  Hand  had 
any  thought  of  returning  home  but  I  could  represent  him 
as  being  bent  on  doing  so,  and  myself  as  able  to  keep  him 
away,  for  a  price;  the  other  thing — and  this  impressed  and 
excited  me  much  the  more  strongly — was  that  the  Hand 
farm  was  on  Long  Island  not  far  from  the  little  town  of  Blue 
Port  where  Keturah  Hawkins  had  her  home.  I  turned 
the  whole  thing  over  in  my  mind  during  the  sodden  days  and 
nights  of  a  week.  I  do  not  believe  that  in  the  condition 
I  was  in  all  that  time  I  was  capable  of  reaching  a  bold  de- 
cision— not  even  boldly  evil.  At  last  I  wrote  to  Richard 
Hand.  I  told  him  that  I,  a  stranger  to  him,  not  only  knew 
his  brother's  whereabouts  but  knew  his  story;  and  I  had  found 
Hosea  Hand  resolved  to  return  home  and  settle  accounts. 
I  could  keep  the  boy  away,  but  must  have  something  for 
doing  it.  It  would  be  a  sensible  thing  for  him  to  do  business 
with  me.  I  wanted  money,  and  I  wanted  information. 
His  reply  and  its  enclosure  would  be  evidence  of  good  faith. 
He  replied;  and  it  was  plain  that  he  was  frightened. 
Hosea  Hand  was  no  longer  in  San  Francisco,  having  shipped 
on  a  vessel  for  New  York.  Richard  Hand  did  not  send  much 
money,  but  any  sum  looked  large  to  me  at  the  moment.  I 


200  MERMAID 

spent  the  money  in  one  night,  and  began  to  consider  how 
I  could  get  more,  or  how  I  should  proceed  next,  having  in 
mind  the  fact  that  the  young  brother  had  expressed  an  inten- 
tion of  going  home.  If  he  did  so,  I  knew  he  would  not  bother 
Richard  Hand  further  than  to  tell  him  to  his  face  that  he  was 
a  cheat  and  might  go  to  the  devil  as  fast  as  he  liked.  Then 
I  should  be  unable  to  get  more  money.  I  wrote  to  Richard 
Hand — the  letter  would  reach  him  before  his  brother  appeared 
— asking  about  Captain  Hawkins.  Where  was  he,  where 
was  his  wife,  what  were  their  means,  what  connections  had 
they  ?  Richard  Hand  sent  back  a  pretty  full  account  of  the 
Hawkinses.  Both  were  at  sea  at  the  time.  There  was 
property.  They  had  no  child  as  yet.  Mrs.  Hawkins  had 
an  older  sister,  married,  with  two  children,  a  boy  and  a 
girl.  Their  name  was  Smiley  and  the  girl  was  named  after 
Mrs.  Hawkins.  In  the  event  of  the  Hawkinses  remaining 
childless,  these  two  would  most  likely  inherit  their  property. 
All  this  did  not  interest  me  much  and  I  wrote  no  more  to 
Richard  Hand  at  that  time.  Of  a  sudden  the  passion  for 
that  woman  of  the  dark  red  hair  and  milky  skin  reawakened 
in  me.  I  was  young;  I  shook  off  my  dissipation,  and  set  out 
to  find  her. 

In  all  sorts  of  ships  and  in  any  sort  of  berth  I  went  about 
the  world,  from  seaport  to  seaport;  and  as  I  was  a  good  ship's 
officer  I  had  no  trouble  to  get  about.  I  sailed  from  San 
Francisco  to  New  York,  and  there  I  heard  that  Captain 
Hawkins  had  left  the  China  Castle  and  was  somewhere  on 
the  Western  Ocean,  as  seamen  term  the  North  Atlantic, 
with  cotton  for  Liverpool.  I  followed,  as  nearly  as  possible, 
but  got  to  Liverpool  after  he  had  sailed  on  his  return  trip. 


MERMAID  201 

A  long  chase  followed.  There  is  no  point  in  setting  it  down 
here.  It  lasted  for  years.  We  three  ranged  from  Singapore 
to  Boston  and  from  Rotterdam  to  the  Cape  Settlement. 
Twice  in  that  time  I  caught  glimpses  of  Keturah  Hawkins. 
Once  I  saw  her  standing  on  the  afterdeck  of  her  husband's 
ship,  clearing  from  Havre  as  we  entered  the  harbour;  again 
I  saw  her  driven  past,  on  a  boulevard  in  Rio  de  Janeiro. 
The  third  time  I  did  not  have  merely  a  glimpse  of  her  but 
met  her  face  to  face. 

It  was  totally  unexpected.  I  did  not  even  know  that  the 
other  vessel  in  the  harbour  of  Almeria  was  her  husband's. 
Almeria  is  a  Spanish  town  with  nothing  to  recommend  it  to 
any  one  except  the  trader.  I  was  in  ballast  and  called  on  the 
chance  of  a  cargo — grapes  or  anything.  Above  the  town, 
on  the  bare  brown  hills,  lies  the  ruin  of  the  Moorish  fort, 
just  a  long  enclosure,  a  masonry  wall  about  shoulder  high, 
with  embrasures.  It  is  the  only  thing  to  see.  She  had  come 
ashore  to  see  it,  leaving  her  husband  supervising  the  work 
of  loading  cargo,  a  job  he  never  left  entirely  to  his  mate.  I 
was  wandering  around  with  a  young  Spaniard;  not  that  either 
of  us  could  understand  the  other  very  well  but  some  kind 
of  company  seemed  essential.  We  came  upon  her,  all  alone, 
a  foolhardy  thing,  but  she  had  superb  self-confidence.  She 
lifted  her  eyes,  saw  me,  half  turned  and  started  away,  walk- 
ing steadily  but  with  no  appearance  of  flight.  I  overtook 
her.  I  don't  know,  as  I  live,  what  I  said,  but  whatever  it 
was  she  never  answered,  nor  did  she  look  at  me.  As  we 
passed  through  the  gateway  out  of  the  fort  she  paused  for 
an  instant  and  gave  a  beggar  a  small  coin.  At  that  moment 
I  saw  Captain  Hawkins  approaching. 


202  MERMAID 

> 

He  looked  straight  at  me,  never  moving  a  muscle  of  his 
face,  approached  her,  and  said  something  in  an  undertone, 
a  request  to  wait,  I  imagine.  Then  he  came  toward  me  and 
I  turned  and  led  the  way  into  the  fort,  within  those  shell-like 
walls  four  centuries  old.  Inside  I  faced  him.  It  was  easy 
to  see  what  was  coming. 

I  was  beaten,  badly  beaten.  His  fists,  hard  as  iron  belay- 
ing pins,  broke  down  my  defence  and  hammered  blows  upon 
my  head,  my  shoulders,  my  body.  I  was  soon  winded  and 
down,  and  still  he  did  not  leave  off  beating  me.  He  kicked 
me  about  as  I  grovelled  there  in  the  fine  dust  of  that  Moorish 
citadel,  the  outpost  of  Granada.  I  was  a  dog  and  he  used 
me  like  a  dog.  When  I  was  senseless  he  left.  How  I  got  out 
of  it  I  don't  know;  I  think  the  young  Spaniard  got  others  to 
help  him  and  put  me  on  board  my  vessel.  When  I  recovered 
the  next  day  the  other  ship  had  gone. 

All  the  evil  in  me  was  loosed  by  this  adventure.  I  swore 
to  myself  that  I  would  be  revenged  upon  those  people  and  any 
and  all  of  their  people,  and  that  I  would  live  if  only  to  ac- 
complish that.  But  eighteen  months  in  which  I  lost  all  track 
of  the  Hawkinses  cooled  that  purpose.  I  married,  and 
Keturah  Hawkins  was  half  forgotten.  Of  my  marriage  it 
is  not  necessary  to  say  anything.  It  took  place  in  San 
Francisco  and  was  forced  upon  me  at  the  point  of  a  pistol. 
My  wife  died  within  a  year.  I  left  the  sea  and  became  a 
prospector  when  I  was  not  an  idler.  I  was  nearly  50  when 
a  child  was  born.  This  is  the  boy  known  as  Guy  Vanton. 
After  his  mother's  death,  very  shortly  after,  I  struck  it  rich. 
Concerning  my  money  and  the  source  of  it  I  have  nothing  to 
say;  concerning  the  boy's  mother  nothing  except  that  we 


MERMAID  203 

were  not  married.  I  may  not  be  his  father,  but  I  am  the 
only  father  he  has  known.  All  these  things  I  have  told  him. 
I  would  save  him,  if  possible,  from  what  has  befallen  me. 
You  will  see  what  that  is  shortly. 

After  I  became  rich — so  rich  that  I  could  not  waste  my 
substance  in  a  night,  or  a  week,  or  a  year;  so  old  that  cau- 
tion was  the  stronger  impulse  always  and  made  me  hoard 
what  I  had — after  the  death  of  Guy  Vanton's  mother  I 
lived  just  outside  San  Francisco  with  the  boy  and  the  memo- 
ries of  a  vicious  life.  There  is  nothing  like  old  age  to  in- 
tensify the  good  or  evil  in  a  man.  Here  was  I  with  my 
memories,  which  all  at  once,  in  my  loneliness,  became  vivid, 
alive,  crawling.  I  thought  of  Keturah  Hawkins  and  writhed. 
I  thought  of  her  jewels  and  a  terrible  greed  filled  me.  I 
thought  of  that  flogging  on  the  China  Castle  and  my  shoulders 
twitched;  of  the  impact  of  Captain  Hawkins's  fists  and  quiv- 
ered, half  raising  a  protective  arm.  I  wrote  again  to  Richard 
Hand  and  learned  that  these  two  people  were  dead;  that 
their  nephew  had  married  and  displeased  Keturah  Hawkins; 
that  her  fortune  had  gone  to  her  niece.  From  Richard  Hand 
I  was  able  to  learn  something  about  these  persons  and  to 
figure  out  a  way  I  might  strike  at  them  and  hurt  or  crush 
them.  How  was  I  able  to  get  this  out  of  him  ?  Partly  by 
threats  to  show  him  up  as  compounding  with  me  to  keep  his 
brother  out  of  a  lawful  inheritance;  partly  with  money.  I 
have  no  time  for  details  and  there  are  things  that  are  better 
to  go  forever  unrecorded. 

It  was  I,  Jacob  King,  who  hired  a  man  to  make  love  to  and 
fascinate  John  Smiley's  wife.  It  was  an  easy  thing  to  do, 
with  her  husband  mostly  absent  on  the  beach.  To  avoid 


204  MERMAID 

the  townspeople's  eyes  was  more  difficult,  but  it  was  managed 
with  secret  meetings  of  one  sort  or  another.  She  was  led 
to  leave  him,  taking  her  baby  girl  with  her;  eventually  she 
was  led  to  me.  How  much  of  this  Richard  Hand  surmised 
I  don't  know  or  care.  But  he  had  no  part  in  it  beyond  giving 
me  facts  about  the  Smileys  to  go  upon. 
I  subjected  Mary  Smiley  to  all  the  tortures  I  could  devise. 
She  lived  with  me  though  she  was  John  Smiley's  wife.  She 
was  a  silly,  childish  creature  and  she  was  absolutely  at  my 
mercy.  I  made  her  life  a  hell  for  several  years.  In  the  mean- 
time, her  little  girl  was  growing — into  a  tiny  image  of  Keturah 
Hawkins.  It  was  that  which  conquered  me,  or  the  settled 
wickedness  within  me.  I,  who  had  set  out  to  wreak  re- 
motely my  revenge  on  Keturah  Hawkins,  was  myself  be- 
coming the  victim  of  a  living  punishment.  For  here  was 
Keturah  Hawkins  in  the  house  with  me.  Every  physical 
characteristic  was  there  in  the  child  later  known  as  Mermaid 
Smiley,  the  daughter  of  John  Smiley  and  Mary  Rogers 
Smiley,  the  grandniece  of  the  woman  I  remembered.  The 
child  had  Keturah  Hawkins's  hair,  eyes,  skin,  and  features; 
even,  in  embryo,  her  manner.  I  could  torture  her  silly  and 
pitiable  mother  and  the  child  would  enter  the  room,  a  living 
taunt  to  me.  Here  she  was,  and  she  would  outlive  me;  she 
would  be  flesh  and  blood,  wonderful  glinting  hair,  flashing 
blue  eyes,  matchless  white  skin,  unconquerably  alive  and 
superb,  unconquerably  young  and  gay  when  I  was  not  merely 
a  cruel  and  old  and  despicable  man,  but  dust.  She  would 
dance  on  my  grave. 

I  stood  it  as  long  as  I  could  and  then  something  happened 
within  me,  a  mental  overthrow  comparable  to  the  physical 


MERMAID  205 

defeats  I  had  suffered  because  of  Keturah  Hawkins.  Some- 
thing in  the  continual  presence  of  that  child  rained  blows 
upon  me  until  I  was  numb  in  my  mind,  until  I  couldn't  think 
or  plan  at  all,  until  the  torture  I  could  inflict  on  her  mother 
was  a  meaningless  thing;  and  there  had  always  been  a  terrible 
futility  about  it  for  the  reason  that  I  could  not  make  my 
revenge  anywhere  near  complete  and  satisfactory.  I  could 
not,  for  instance,  communicate  to  John  and  Keturah  Smiley 
the  triumph  of  vengeance  that  was  mine.  John  Hawkins 

was  not  alive  to  witness  it;  Keturah  Hawkins Was  she 

alive,  in  the  person  of  that  child,  to  see  it?  Perhaps,  and 
perhaps  she  was  alive  in  the  person  of  that  child  to  thwart 
it.  She  would  beat  me  down;  dead  or  living  she  would  best 
me.  A  superstitious,  or  perhaps  a  holy,  terror  laid  hold  of 
me  so  that  I  dared  not  lay  hands  on  the  little  girl,  or  even  say 
to  her  things  that  might  bring  tears  to  childish  eyes.  I 
dared  not,  I  tell  you!  And  besides,  it  would  be  laying  hands 
on  Keturah  herself. 

You  see  the  situation?  Do  you  see  how  the  poison  of 
evil  had  worked  in  me  all  these  years,  how  it  had  dominated 
me  for  a  time,  how  it  had  lain  dormant,  how  it  had  cropped 
out  hideously  like  some  unspeakable  and  inexterminable 
disease?  Silently  through  the  years  it  had  corrupted  me, 
corrupting  my  mind  even  more  than  my  body,  more  insidi- 
ously and  more  surely,  and  with  more  deadly  a  result.  And 
at  last  from  a  small  boat  on  San  Francisco  Bay — we  had  gone 
into  the  city  to  live — John  Smiley's  wife  was  drowned.  I 
was  left  with  the  child  on  my  hands  and  with  no  embodiment 
for  my  fancied  vengeance.  I  think  I  went  nearly  insane 
then,  if  I  was  not  insane  already. 


206  MERMAID 

I  determined  to  make  what  atonement  I  could.  I  took 
certain  cowardly  precautions  and  prepared  to  send  the  child 
back  to  her  father.  There  is  something  supernatural  in  the 
manner  in  which  that  return  was  accomplished.  I  did  not 
learn  of  it  for  some  years.  I  took  the  boy,  Guy,  and  went  to 
Paris,  taking  a  servant  with  me  in  the  semblance  of  my  wife 
and  his  mother.  She  became  an  invalid  abroad,  but  I  have 
not  cast  her  off. 

In  Paris  I  came  to  see  that  my  atonement  must  be  as 
complete  as  I  could  make  it.  So  I  came  back  to  New  York 
and  made  inquiries  through  Richard  Hand.  I  was  then 
"Captain  Vanton,"  or  "Buel  Vanton"  but  I  wrote  him  as 
Jacob  King.  He  replied;  from  what  he  told  me — and  I 
paid  him,  of  course — I  was  able  to  piece  together  the  truth 
that  was  hidden  from  him  and  from  others.  The  next  step 
was  the  appearance  of  Captain  Vanton  in  Blue  Port. 

The  rest,  externally,  is  known;  what  can  never  be  known 
is  the  suffering  I  have  endured.  It  is  all  deserved  and  much 
more,  no  doubt,  but  endurance  is  nearing  an  end.  I  am 
probably  insane  in  some  peculiar  fashion.  I  see  nothing 
but  jewels;  jewels  arranged  as  if  in  the  hair  and  on  the  bosom 
of  an  invisible  woman.  Then  I  see  Keturah  Hawkins,  a 
very  young  Keturah  Hawkins,  but  Keturah  Hawkins  be- 
yond question,  pass  along  the  street — and  she  wears  no  jewels. 
I  think  her  aunt  has  them,  and  some  day  in  my  madness  I 
shall  break  in  and  steal  them,  just  to  handle  them,  these 
stones  that  touched  her  white  skin  and  were  nested  in  that 
wine-dark  hair.  Pray  God,  I  may  never  lay  hold  of  them  or 
I  shall  go  raving  mad!  The  girl,  this  reincarnation  of  the 
woman  I  once  held  in  my  arms,  I  have  no  further  concern 


MERMAID  207 

with.  If  ever  she  comes  to  me  to  know  her  story  I  shall  tell 
her.  But  she  is  Keturah.  She  knows. 

The  boy,  young  Guy,  I  have  kept  close  by  me,  and  I  have 
told  him  some  of  this  shameful  story  in  order  that,  if  he 
does  indeed  have  any  of  my  blood  in  his  veins,  he  may  have, 
in  knowledge  of  the  truth,  some  antidote  to  its  poison.  The 
girl  will  have  money,  and  I  will  provide  for  the  boy. 

The  girl  and  boy  are  friends;  something  else  may  ripen  of 
their  friendship.  If  he  is  my  son  and  if,  as  may  be,  she  loves 
him,  or  comes  to  love  him,  will  that  be  a  final  triumphant 
twist  in  my  favour  against  Keturah?  Will  that  be  the  last 
word — my  word — in  this  problem  of  revenge?  You  see, 
you  see  how  deeply  it  has  poisoned  me.  Perhaps  I  will 
anticipate  the  end. 

The  signature  of  "Jacob  King"  completed  this  nar- 
rative, obviously  too  incredible  in  its  statements  and 
too  monomaniacal  in  its  tone  to  have  any  bearing  on 
the  death  of  Captain  Buel  Vanton  from  a  pistol  wound, 
self-inflicted. 

VI 

"I  can't,"  said  the  smooth-shaven  young  man — 
young  but  evidently  not  so  very  young,  either.  His 
pale  face  had  dark  circles  under  the  strange-lighted 
eyes.  His  black,  straight  hair  was  not  brushed.  The 
wind  which  ruffled  it  brought  no  colour  to  his  cheeks. 
His  nostrils — he  had  rather  a  snub  nose — twitched. 
At  his  sides  his  hands  kept  closing  and  unclosing,  and 


208  MERMAID 

he  stood  stiffly,  like  a  scarecrow  absurdly  taken  from  a 
field  and  firmly  rooted  in  this  spot  on  the  sand  of  the 
Great  South  Beach. 

The  young  woman  who  faced  him,  with  her  glowing 
hair  and  her  eyes  and  skin  which  seemed  to  reflect 
every  atom  of  the  downpouring  sunlight,  made  no 
gesture,  but  met  his  denial  with  an  affirmation.  Two 
words  pronounced  in  a  low,  vibrating  voice: 

"You  can." 

They  were  ordinary  young  people  of  the  twentieth 
century  in  appearance,  the  one  perhaps  more  striking 
in  beauty,  the  other  certainly  more  distraught,  than  the 
average  of  their  ages.  But,  except  for  the  absence  of 
any  archaism  from  their  speech,  they  might  have  been 
speakers  in  a  drama  as  dark  as  "Hamlet." 

"You  are  thirty,"  began  the  girl;  "I  am  twenty-four. 
You  have  a  fortune — well,  $200,000  anyway.  Enough 
for  our  needs.  You  have  another  inheritance,  and  I 
do  not  mean  a  blood  inheritance.  You  are  not  likely 
to  be  the  son  of  Jacob  King." 

"But  the  son  of  Jacob  King's " 

"Don't  say  it,"  she  interrupted,  quietly.  "She  has 
not  mattered  these  thirty  years,  why  should  she  now? 
No,  the  inheritance  I  mean  is  not  of  blood,  but  of  dread, 
shame,  and  repulsion.  Isn't  it  enough,  Guy,  that  in 
his  crazed  lifetime  he  did  everything  that  a  man  could 
do  to  make  you  as  bad  as  himself?  Are  you  going  to 
let  him  rule  you  now  that  he  is  dead?  Are  you  going 


MERMAID  209 

to  accept  that  inheritance?  For  you  need  not.  While 
he  lived  he  dominated  your  life,  he  made  you  share  his 
thoughts,  he  made  you  an  innocent  accomplice  in  evil; 
you  were  an  accessory  after  the  fact  of  his  wrong-doing. 
But  now  he  has  liberated  you.  When  he  shot  himself 
dead  it  was  an  act  of  emancipation.  He  struck  the 
shackles  from  you  and  set  you  free  at  the  same  instant 
that  he  went  forward  to  meet  his  sentence  and  punish- 
ment." 

"I — I  can't,"  repeated  the  man,  hopelessly.  "You 
forget  the  living  tie,  the  woman  there  in  the  house,  the 
one  who  is  known  as  Mrs.  Vanton."  The  words  seemed 
to  hurt  his  throat. 

The  woman's  breast  rose  and  fell,  but  there  was 
tremendous  control  in  her  over  herself,  and  she  exerted 
some  of  it  in  her  answer. 

"There  is  only  one  thing  to  do,"  she  assured  him. 
"-It  is  to  sever  everything  that  joins  you  with  him, 
dead  or  alive.  Do  this:  put  the  inheritance  money 
in  a  trust.  The  income  will  care  for — for  Mrs. 
Vanton,  completely:  medical  attendance,  nursing, 
everything.  Give  her  the  house,  give  her  every  dollar, 
but  leave!  You  can  take  every  precaution  to  see 
that  she  is  properly  cared  for  but  you  must  get  away. 
You  must  have  a  physical  and  a  mental  escape.  You 
have  got  to  renounce  the  past  and  everything  in  the 
present  that  threads  you  to  the  past.  You  have  got 
to  get  out  into  a  sunlit  world,  a  world  of  normal 


210  MERMAID 

men  and  women,  of  fighting  and  playing  and  loving, 
of  shops  and  homes,  of  marriage  and  children,  of  dis- 
comforts and  hardships,  adventures  and  trifling  worries 
and  happiness.  At  thirty  you  must  act,  you  who  have 
been  passive  and  acted  upon.  You  have  a  life  to  live. 
Live  it.  Oh,  Guy,  live  your  own  life!" 

She  turned  away  from  him.  Something  in  her  voice 
galvanized  him,  communicated  an  electric  thrill  along 
the  dead  circuit  of  his  nerves,  startled  him,  shocked 
him  from  his  inertia.  .-  He  looked  up  quickly,  took 
a  step  or  two,  and  saw  that  she  was  crying.  As  if  it 
were  a  reflex  action  he  took  two  steps  more  and  stood 
beside  her,  then  put  his  arm  timidly  about  her.  For 
one  instant  she  relaxed  slightly,  so  that  her  weight  fell 
upon  the  arm,  then  she  was  alive  again  and  turned  to 
him  a  smiling  face  with  cheeks  still  wet. 

"It  doesn't  matter  what  you  do,"  she  assured  him. 
"Why  don't  you  do  this?  You  aren't  in  trim,  physi- 
cally; that's  plain.  You're  in  need  of  conditioning, 
some  sort  of  outdoor  life,  something  that  will  harden 
you.  And  you  need  company,  companionship.  Why 
not  stay  here  on  the  beach  this  summer  and  then 
through  next  winter  with  my  father  at  the  Coast  Guard 
station  ?  He  can't  take  you  on  as  a  surfman,  of  course, 
for  you'd  have  to  pass  an  examination.  Though  you 
might  do  that,  a  surfman  has  to  have  had  several  years 
experience  as  a  bayman,  too.  But  you  could  be  a  sort 
of  volunteer  member  of  the  crew.  You  wouldn't  make 


MERMAID  211 

any  money  but  you  won't  need  any  money.  You'll 
have  bad  hours,  but  fewer  than  you  suppose.  You 
won't  even  have  the  ordinary  loneliness,  for  you  can't 
take  a  beach  patrol  and  you'll  always  be  out  with  one 
of  the  other  men.  And  there's  Tommy  Lupton — he's 
here.  You  and  he  can  travel  together;  you're  good 
friends.  And  Uncle  Ho.  Aunt  Keturah  can't  persuade 
him  to  leave  the  beach  permanently.  She  says,"  Mer- 
maid smiled  at  the  recollection,  "she  says  that  marriage 
with  him  has  made  no  difference,  that  she  sees  him  as 
often  as  ever. 

"You  haven't  to  look  a  long  way  ahead,"  she  con- 
tinued. "You  oughtn't  to.  Those  who  look  too  far 
ahead  see  the  reflection  of  the  past.  You  must  live, 
as  nearly  as  possible,  from  day  to  day.  Plan  for  a 
year  and  plan,  in  the  circumstances,  no  farther.  Keep 
to  the  beach.  Keep  to  the  men,  especially  Uncle  Ho 
and  Tommy.  They  have  something  they  can  share 
with  you,  something  you  need  above  everything  else 
just  now." 

So  it  was  decided  and  so  arranged.  Mermaid,  who 
was  concerned  over  her  aunt's  health,  felt  that  to  go 
to  California  might  do  Keturah  Hand  a  world  of  good. 
It  could  be  tried,  anyway.  She  came  over  to  the  beach 
one  morning  to  say  good-bye  to  her  father,  to  Hosea 
Hand,  to  the  men  generally,  one  or  two  of  whom,  par- 
ticularly Joe  Sayre,  remembered  her  from  her  childhood 
among  them.  And  to  say  good-bye  to  Guy  Vanton. 


212 


MERMAID 


He  already  looked  better  physically,  she  thought, 
noting  the  trace  of  colour  in  his  face  and  the  absence 
of  the  dark  rings  from  under  his  eyes.  Their  gaze  met 
as  they  said  good-bye.  His  curious,  fawn-like  glance 
was  fixed  on  the  shining  blue  surfaces  that  hid  such 
great  deeps  within  her  eyes,  a  wild  creature  of  the  shore 
looking  with  wonder  on  the  unfathomable  sea.  He  said : 

"Good-bye.  I  shall  see  you  every  time  the  sun  shines 
on  the  ocean.  You — you  must  come  back.  Please 
do  write  to  me." 

"I  shall  be  back,"  she  answered,  with  calm  warmth. 
Only  the  blue  opacity  of  her  eyes  concealed  the  great 
tides  moving  within  her.  "I  shall  write.  Work  hard. 
Sand  and  sea  and  sun  are  great  chemicals  to  act  upon 
the  mind.  The  beach  here  is  so  like  a  desert  island. 
You  must  think  of  yourself  as  on  a  desert  island,  cut 
off  by  the  sea  of  present  living  from  the  lands  of  past 
remembrance.  And  eventually,  like  Atlantis,  those 
lands  will  sink  beneath  the  sea." 

With  a  firm  handclasp  they  parted. 

VII 

On  the  train  travelling  westward  Mermaid  and  her 
aunt  had  some  talk  of  events,  recent  and  not  so  recent. 

"But  why  did  you  take  my  jewels?"  demanded 
Keturah. 

"  Because  they  worried  you.  They  were  like  a  piece 
of  bone,  a  tiny  fragment  pressing  on  the  brain,"  re- 


MERMAID  213 

spondee!  the  young  woman.  "I  knew  that  if  they  dis- 
appeared in  such  a  way  as  to  make  it  seem  that  they 
had  been  stolen — and  I  suppose,  strictly,  they  were 
stolen — the  worrying  would  cease.  What  made  you 
think  of  Captain  Vanton  as  the  thief?" 

"  Because  it  was  impossible  to  think  of  any  one  else, 
I  suppose,"  said  Mrs.  Hand.  "And  while  I  never 
guessed  that  he  was  the  man  King,  still  he  evidently 
knew  more  about  King  than  any  of  us  did;  and  King 
had  known  or  seen  Keturah  Hawkins  and  knew  of  or 
had  seen  the  stones.  Any  one  might  want  to  steal 
them  who  knew  about  them.  And  he  did." 

Mermaid  had  a  question  in  turn: 

"I  should  have  thought  Uncle  Ho  would  have  rec- 
ognized Captain  Vanton  as  the  Jacob  King  he  had 
known  in  San  Francisco. " 

"Child,  half  a  century  had  elapsed  between  his  ac- 
quaintance with  Jacob  King  and  the  appearance  of 
Captain  Vanton  in  Blue  Port.  Then,  those  sidewhisk- 
ers.  .  .  ." 

"Dickie  will  come  out  next  week,"  Mermaid  said, 
absently. 

"Are  you  going  to  marry  young  Dick  Hand?" 
Keturah  inquired,  with  her  natural  abruptness. 

"Aunt,  you  wouldn't  have  me  marry  a  man  just  be- 
cause he  asks  me,  would  you  ? " 

"Well,  I  hope  you  wouldn't  marry  him  without  his 
asking  you  to." 


214  MERMAID 

"I  might  ask  him." 

"Dickie?" 

"Oh,  no — that  is — I  mean — Dickie  has  asked  me, 

but  I  mean  I  might — sometime "  Mermaid  seemed 

unnecessarily  embarrassed.  Her  aunt  looked  at  her 
intently;  then,  as  if  she  thought  it  better  to  swerve 
the  conversation  slightly,  remarked  abruptly:  "Well, 
old  Richard  Hand  died  a  natural  death  at  the  end  of 
his  unnatural  life,  after  all." 

"I  don't  think  you  can  call  death  from  fear  a  nat- 
ural death,"  objected  the  younger  woman. 

"  Fear !     What  was  he  afraid  of? " 

"He  was  partly  senile,  of  course,  but  he  could  not 
be  convinced  that  Captain  Vanton  was  really  dead. 
He  heard  more  or  less  of  Captain  Vanton's  story. 
The  coroner  didn't  give  it  out,  but  things  like  that  al- 
ways get  around,  or  some  of  them.  When  they  told 
him  that  Captain  Vanton  was  Jacob  King,  he  had  a 
stroke.  Paralysis.  After  that  he  kept  looking  about 
him  and  saying:  'The  King  is  dead!  Long  live  the 
King!'  And  when  they  told  him  that  Captain  Vanton 
had  been  buried  he  cried  out:  'Nothing  is  ever  buried. 
He'll  come  to  life  again.'  Later  he  had  delusions 
that  he  saw  King  or  Vanton.  Do  you  remember  when 
Dad  went  to  see  him?  He  caught  sight  of  Dad  and 
shrieked:  'Don't  kill  me,  John  Smiley!  I  didn't  steal 
your  daughter !  Kill  King !  Only  you  can't  kill  him ! ' ' 

Mermaid  finished  with  a  shudder. 


MERMAID  215 

Mrs.  Hand  asked:  "How  much  of  the  whole  story 
does  young  Dick  know?" 

"His  father's  part  in  it  pretty  fully.  The  rest — 
about  Guy  and  Mrs.  Vanton  and  all — no  more  than 
the  other  Blue  Port  people.  About  all  they  know  is 
that  Mrs.  Vanton  wasn't  the  Captain's  wife  and  that 
the  Captain  was  a  mad  old  man  who  made  his  boy's 
life  miserable  and  who  had  had  something  underhanded 
to  do  with  Richard  Hand." 

"I've  always  wondered  what  you  told  that  man  to 
make  him  tell  you  that  you  were  John  Smiley's  daugh- 
ter," Mrs.  Hand  remarked. 

"Only  what  I  guessed.  He  was  ready  to  tell  me," 
said  Mermaid.  "I  was  really  fighting  for  Guy.  I 
offered  your  jewels  to  him  as  a  ransom  for  Guy.  It 
sounds  ridiculous,  but  since  I  knew  you  thought  he 
had  taken  them  I  knew  you  must  think  he  coveted 
them,  had  some  craving  that  they  might  satisfy.  I 
was  more  or  less  in  the  dark;  I  went  ahead  by  instinct." 

"It's  a  wonder,  since  he  shot  himself  right  after  you 
left  the  house,  that  you  were  not  accused  of  murder," 
said  Keturah,  grimly.  "You  might  have  shot  him  dead 
and  walked  away." 

"You  forget  Mrs.  Vanton,"  Mermaid  reminded  her. 
"She  had  come  to  the  head  of  the  stairs.  She  saw 
the  door  close  after  me.  It  was  two  or  three  minutes 
later  before  she  heard  the  pistol  shot." 

"She's  honest,  it  seems." 


216  MERMAID 

"Yes,  poor  creature." 

"Mary,"  asked  Keturah  Hand  as  she  leaned  forward 
while  her  niece  adjusted  the  pillows  behind  her  in  the 
big  Pullman  chair,  "when  that  man  refused  the  jewels 
you  told  him  that  you  would  offer  another  ransom  for 
Guy  Vanton.  What  had  you  in  mind  ?" 

The  younger  woman  was  behind  her  aunt.  Mrs. 
Hand  twisted  about  suddenly  to  see  her  face.  It  was 
flushed,  but  Mermaid's  deep  and  brilliant  eyes  met 
her  aunt's  unflinchingly. 

"I  would  have  married  Guy,"  she  said,  her  voice 
vibrating  slightly.  "His  father — that  is,  that  man — 
talked  about  saving  him.  I  would  have  matched  my 
salvation  of  him  against  his — father's.  I  would  have 
fought  for  him  against  all  the  past  evil  that  was  drag- 
ging him  down.  Now  his  father  is  dead.  He  can — 
possibly — pull  himself  out  alone,  unaided.  If  not,  I 
am  'standing  by.'  Oh,  yes — I  love  him,"  she  finished, 
answering  the  interrogation  that  leaped  from  Keturah 
Hand's  eyes. 

VIII 

In  the  sunshine  of  California,  in  the  cheerfulness  of 
life  in  San  Francisco,  Keturah  grew  steadily  better. 
Dick  Hand  executed  a  variety  of  projects,  and  only 
Mermaid  remained  unstirred  and  uninfluenced  by  her 
surroundings,  by  the  change  of  air  and  scene.  It  is 
perhaps  wrong  to  speak  of  her  as  "unstirred."  She 


MERMAID  217 

was  stirred  and  very  deeply,  but  by  no  trifle  of  environ- 
ment or  of  company.  Down  in  her  the  great  tides 
were  swinging,  moving  resistlessly  and  in  vast  volume, 
imperceptible  in  their  drift  and  direction  on  the  surface. 
As  was  inevitable,  Dick  Hand  again  asked  her  to  marry 
him  and  this  time  she  gave  him  a  final  refusal.  She  did 
not  put  him  off.  She  knew  it  would  be  useless.  The 
current  had  set  and  was  sweeping  on  through  her. 
She  could  chart  it,  and  she  knew  it  would  not  shift. 
Something  tremendous,  something  massive  in  her  life 
would  be  required  to  deflect  it. 

"Why,"  she  asked  herself,  "should  I  pretend  to  my- 
self any  longer?  I  love  Guy  Vanton.  I  think  I  have 
always  loved  him.  He  is  in  peril  and  he  needs  my  help. 
When  he  was  caught  in  the  surf  did  I  wait  to  see  if 
he  could  save  himself?  Not  one  instant!  Why  do  I 
wait  now?  Why  do  I  risk  losing  him,  by  letting  him 
drown,  forever?  It  isn't  right." 

She  did  up  her  hair  in  great  coils,  like  thick  cables 
of  ship's  rope,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  each  separate 
strand,  so  slender,  so  easily  snapped,  redoubled  in  its 
tensile  power  as  it  was  gathered  with  the  hundreds  of 
others. 

"Life,"  she  thought  to  herself,  "is  like  that.  We 
are  tied  to  the  past  by  a  thousand  filaments,  every  one 
of  them  slight,  fragile,  easily  snapped,  quickly  broken. 
But  they  are  all  twisted  together.  They  are  like  this 
coil  of  hair.  They  are  like  a  thousand  threads  spun 


2i  8  MERMAID 

together,  not  to  be  snapped,  not  to  be  broken.  A 
thousand  things  join  Guy  to  the  past.  Some  of  the 
threads  join  the  two  of  us." 

A  fresh  thought  struck  her. 

"He  can  never  escape  wholly  from  his  past.  And  I 
am  almost  the  only  thing  or  person  in  it  that  is  pleasant 
or  even  halfway  wholesome  for  him  to  remember." 

She  recalled  what  she  had  told  him,  that  he  must 
no  longer  be  passive  but  must  act.  Did  not  this  counsel 
apply  to  herself?  She  knew  she  wanted  him.  She 
knew  he  wanted  her.  But  however  great  his  want  of 
her  he  could  not  and  would  not  call  upon  her  to  make 
what  might  be  the  sacrifice  of  a  life — her  life — to  save 
his  own.  How  could  he,  a  man  nearing  middle  age, 
really  nameless,  a  child  of  disgrace  and  the  son  and  heir 
of  evil,  lonely,  sensitive,  not  unliked,  but  virtually 
friendless — how  could  he  ask  her  to  become  his  wife? 
He  could  ask  of  her  nothing  that  she  did  not  freely 
and  of  her  own  impulse  offer  and  give  him — friendship, 
sympathy,  help,  advice.  The  last  item  had  an  ironical 
ring  in  Mermaid's  consciousness.  Advice  to  the  drown- 
ing! 

If  he  had  the  strength  to  save  himself  he  had  that 
strength,  and  that  was  all  there  was  to  it.  For  what 
was  she  waiting?  To  see  him  exercise  it?  But  she 
loved  him.  It  was  not  proof  of  his  strength  she  re- 
quired. What  he  had,  what  he  lacked,  was  nothing — 
simply  nothing.  If  he  hadn't  it,  she  had  strength 


MERMAID  219 

enough  for  two.  Suppose  she  failed?  Suppose  she 
knew  she  would  fail?  The  old  image  persisted  before 
her.  If  he  were  drowning  and  she  knew  that  her  effort 
to  save  him  would  not  succeed,  would  she  abandon 
him,  just  stand  there  watching,  or  await  what  would 
happen  with  averted  eyes?  Of  course  not.  You  had 
to  make  the  effort  no  matter  if  it  was  absolutely  fore- 
doomed to  failure.  And  this  effort  which  confronted 
her  was  not  necessarily  foredoomed  at  all;  at  least,  so 
far  as  she  or  any  one  else  could  see.  They  might  shake 
their  heads  but  they  could  not  tell. 

In  her  way,  the  best  way  she  could  manage,  she  put 
this  to  her  aunt,  who  listened  almost  silently  until  the 
end  and  then  said,  suddenly  and  abruptly:  "Of 
course,  Mary,  if  you  love  him — why,  that  settles  every- 
thing." 

Mermaid  felt  bound  to  insist  on  the  logic  leading 
to  this  conclusion. 

"Nonsense!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Hand,  irritably.  "You 
can't  reason  about  such  a  thing.  When  two  persons 
love  each  other  it  settles  everything — and  unsettles 
everything,  too,"  she  added.  "There's  only  one  thing 
to  do,  and  there's  only  one  person  to  do  it. 

"There's  really  no  reason  why  a  woman  shouldn't 
propose  to  a  man,"  continued  Keturah.  "I'm  no 
great  respecter  of  conventions.  You  may  remember 
the  time  when  I  used  to  wear  a  man's  old  coat.  Con- 
ventions were  made  for  the  man  and  not  man  for  the 


220  MERMAID 

conventions,  except  political  conventions."  She  was 
resorting,  as  was  not  unusual  with  her,  to  flippancy  to 
cover  emotion.  "I  don't  know  but  that  I  may  be  said 
to  have  proposed  to  your  Uncle  Hosea,  when  I  got 
money  that  was  rightfully  his  from  his  brother  and  put 
it  in  his  hands,  indirectly,  as  a  lover  sends  a  box  of 
flowers  to  his  sweetheart.  Only  I  couldn't  have  the 
florist,  Lawyer  Brown,  put  my  card  in  the  box,"  she 
noted.  "However,  it  wasn't  necessary;  it  seldom  is. 
You  always  know  who  sent  the  flowers. 

"I  believe,  though  I  don't  know,  that  Keturah 
Hawkins  proposed  to  John  Hawkins,"  she  went  on. 
"John  was  a  speechless  sort  of  man  all  his  life.  I'm 
sure  he  never  brought  himself  to  utter  any  such  words 
as:  'Will  you  marry  me?'  They  would  have  choked 
him.  I  suspect  that  at  the  proper  time  KeturaL  began 
calmly  to  talk  about  plans  for  the  house  I  live  in,  pro- 
gressing by  easy  stages  to  such  matters  as  the  date  of 
the  wedding  and  the  clothes  he  would  need,  down  to  his 
underwear,  winter  weight. 

"They  say  the  way  to  resume  is  to  resume,  but  often 
the  way  to  begin  is  to  resume,  too.  Each  night  that 
John  called,  Keturah  resumed  the  subject  she  had  not 
discussed  the  night  before;  and  so  they  were  married 
and  lived  happily  ever  after." 

Mermaid,  reduced  to  laughter  by  this  narration, 
said:  "Well,  to  resume  what  we  were  not  talking  about 
just  now,  I  shall  go  East  day  after  to-morrow  if  you 


MERMAID  221 

are  willing.  I  will  bring  Guy  out  here  and  then  I  can 
see  you  home.  You  ought  not  to  travel  alone." 

"Don't  think  you  are  going  away  and  leave  me  in 
this  place  3,000  miles  from  Blue  Port,  missy!"  exclaimed 
her  aunt.  "I  won't  stay  here.  Besides,  Dick  Hand 
is  cross  as  a  catamount  since  you  told  him  for  the  last 
time  that— 

Mrs.  Hand  broke  off  the  sentence  as  she  might  have 
bitten  off  a  thread  of  unnecessary  length.  She  looked 
at  her  niece  and  sighed. 

"You  are  a  fine  woman,  my  dear,"  she  said.  "Come 
here  and  kiss  me.  You  don't  have  to  put  your  mind 
on  it.  Just  a  dutiful  kiss  will  do." 

Mermaid  kissed  her  with  undutiful  violence. 

IX 

They  met,  the  two,  on  the  beach,  on  a  long  sweep  of 
the  ocean  shore  where  snipe  were  running  at  the  edge 
of  the  lacy  waves  but  where  there  was  no  other  human 
being  within  sight  or  sound  of  them.  They  had  met, 
you  may  say,  before — at  the  Lone  Cove  Coast  Guard 
Station,  for  instance,  where  Mermaid  had  kissed  her 
father  and  shaken  hands  with  everybody,  including  the 
one  or  two  surviving  honorary  uncles  of  her  childhood. 
They  had  sat  them  down  at  the  long  table  over  which 
Cap'n  Smiley  still  presided,  encouraging  the  art  of 
conversation  as  one  of  those  social  amenities  that 
marked  the  civilized  man.  They  had  eaten  heartily 


222  MERMAID 

of  simple  and  appetizing  fare,  had  joked,  laughed, 
told  stories.  Mermaid  had  been  delighted  at  the  phys- 
ical transformation  in  Guy.  He  was  broader  shoul- 
dered, or  certainly  seemed  so,  and  was  obviously  heavier, 
**  filled  out,"  as  her  father  put  it.  The  colour  in  his 
cheeks  was  a  thing  to  wonder  at;  so  was  the  calm  of  his 
eyes.  They  were  still  those  wild-animal  eyes,  but  the 
look  in  them  was  that  of  a  creature  at  peace  with  the 
world  and,  for  the  rest,  unafraid.  He  was,  except 
for  the  fact  of  a  somewhat  wider  education,  one  of 
them. 

But  that  had  not  been  a  meeting.  This  was  their 
meeting,  here  on  the  smooth  and  endless  stretch  of  hard- 
packed  sand  at  the  ocean's  edge. 

They  stood  side  by  side,  not  looking  at  each  other 
but  at  the  ocean,  at  the  curling,  magnificent  breakers 
which  the  southeast  wind  was  driving  in.  The  sun 
shone,  the  air  was  magic.  Bird  cries  reached  them, 
a  tiny  treble  to  the  bass  of  the  water's  roar. 

"Out  of  the  ocean  you  came,"  he  said.  "Will  you 
slip  away  and  return  into  it  again  some  day,  I  wonder? 
Mermaid!  The  name  is  poetry  and  the  story  is  ro- 
mance. When  you  go  back,  you  must  look  for  me. 
I  shall  be  a  wreathed  Triton,  blowing  upon  a  conch 
shell.  I  shall  be  among  those  who  pull  the  sea  god's 
chariot  while  you  will  be  among  those  who  swim  in  his 
escort.  And  we  shall  be  much  together.  Always." 

"You  have  done  it!"  she  said,  exultingly.     "You 


MERMAID  22$ 

have  become  a  man,  and  yet  you  have  not  lost  the  child 
and  the  poet  in  you.  You  are  really  the  Guy  Vanton 
I  first  knew,  only  grown,  matured,  with  the  world  before 
you." 

"I  have  it  all  yet  to  conquer,"  he  told  her,  half 
laughing. 

"Your  greatest  conquest  has  been  made." 

He  reached  for  her  hand,  pressed  it,  and  held  it. 

"Guy,"  she  said,  suddenly,  "will  you  marry  me?" 

She  felt  his  hand  tremble.  The  tremendous  tide 
within  her  swept  on,  and  in  her  ears  there  was  a  noise 
like  singing.  She  felt  his  arm  about  her,  and  it  was 
needed.  She  made  out  his  voice,  saying:  "Mermaid,, 
will  you  have  me  ?  Will  you — have — me  ?  Oh,  if  you 
will!" 

It  was  a  cry  of  entreaty,  a  prayer,  a  thanksgiving. 

She  suddenly  slipped  down  onto  the  sand  and  quite 
ridiculously  collapsed  in  a  heap.  And  he  was  on  the 
sand  beside  her,  folding  her  to  him,  murmuring  little 
words  that  were  inaudible  and  precious.  She  felt 
his  hair  against  her  cheek  and  for  an  instant  their 
strange  eyes  confronted  each  other.  In  his  were  brown 
and  golden  lights;  hers  were  less  brilliantly  blue,  as 
if  the  surface  reflection  were  gone,  and  looking  into  them 
it  would  be  possible,  almost  for  the  first  time,  to  guess 
at  the  depths  concealed  by  their  mirror-like  quality. 

They  sat  there  for  a  long  time  while  the  sun  declined 
slowly  through  the  heavens,  a  futile  effort  of  the  wheel- 


224  MERMAID 

ing  universe  to  measure  by  cycles  and  hours  a  moment 
of  eternity. 

X 

The  death  of  "Mrs.  Vanton  " — no  one  ever  was  heart- 
less enough  to  call  her  anything  else — left  entirely  to 
Guy  the  moderate  fortune  which  had  been  Captain 
Vanton's.  And  now  he  had  a  use  for  it. 

Mermaid  and  her  husband  travelled  about,  crossing 
the  Atlantic  and  visiting  Paris,  where  Guy  showed 
his  wife  some  scenes  of  his  boyhood.  They  rambled 
through  little  towns.  And  in  these  the  streets  seemed 
always  to  be  crowded  with  youngsters  at  play. 

Mermaid  had  hold  of  Guy's  arm.  He  felt  her  red- 
gold  hair  brush  his  cheek. 

"Children!"  he  said,  and  fell  silent.  "We,  too,  were 
children  once.  I  think  we  will  always  remain  children, 
you  and  I.  The  spirit  does  not  die,  but  the  body  must 
be  renewed.  It  is  ours  to  renew  it." 

They  walked  on  together,  and  everywhere  the  chil- 
dren looked  up  from  the  excitement  and  laughter  of  their 
games  to  glance  at  them  interestedly  or  disinterestedly, 
curiously  or  with  indifference,  and  here  and  there  they 
caught  a  smile,  fleeting  and  momentary,  fashioned 
expressly  for  them,  inviting  them  to  share  the  instant's 
joy.  As  they  walked  they  drew  closer  together.  They 
were  no  longer  blissfully  happy,  moving  in  a  thoughtless 
perfection  of  shared  and  reciprocated  love.  They  were 


MERMAID  225 

intelligently  happy,  perceptively,  hopefully  happy. 
To  the  delight  of  the  moment  and  of  each  other  was 
added  the  delight  of  anticipation.  They  walked  on  and 
looked  down  the  long  vista  of  the  future. 

Their  love  had  now  a  meaning  and  a  purpose  for 
both  of  them  that  transcended  the  dear  comradeship 
and  pleasure  of  the  present.  It  was  still  love,  but  it 
was  not  the  same  love4,  it  had  in1  it  a  sense  of  obligation, 
an  instinct  of  fidelity,  a  passion  of  service,  an  element 
of  devotion.  In  a  little  village  church  they  knelt  to- 
gether, reverently,  before  the  altar,  and  the  same  prayer 
was  in  both  their  hearts. 


PART  FOUR 
I 

HER  oldest  child,  a  boy,  was  fourteen  when  Mrs. 
Guy  Vanton  lost  her  husband. 
They  had  lived  together  for  a  little  more  than 
fifteen  years.     The  newspapers  of  those  years  contain 
nothing  to  show  or  suggest  what  may  have  been  wrong 
in  their  lives.     If  there  was  anything  it  did  not  show 
outwardly. 

In  the  files  of  the  Patchogue  Advance,  to  be  sure,  the 
patient  searcher  might  come  upon  a  record  of  the  death 
of  Keturah  Hand,  only  sister  of  John  Smiley  and  a  life- 
long resident  of  Blue  Port.  The  article  referred  to  her 
as  the  widow  of  Hosea  Hand,  who  had  lost  his  life  three 
years  earlier  in  an  endeavour  to  save  seamen  from  the 
wreck  of  a  three-masted  schooner,  the  Sirius.  The 
Advance  did  not  recall  the  details  of  this  tragedy,  no 
doubt  because  they  were  familiar  to  almost  all  its 
readers.  Hosea  Hand,  with  a  rope  about  his  waist,  had 
gone  into  a  maelstrom  of  pounding  surf  at  the  foot  of  the 
sand  dunes,  a  maelstrom  in  which  several  dark  bundles 
of  what  appeared  to  be  water-soaked  clothing  were 
clashing  about.  The  bundles  were  human  flotsam, 

226 


MERMAID  227 

three  poor  devils  washed  from  the  rigging  of  the 
Sirius.  Before  Hosea  Hand  could  lay  hold  of  a  single 
one  a  big  piece  of  floating  timber,  part  of  the  ship's 
fence,  struck  him.  He  never  recovered  consciousness 
after  being  hauled  inshore. 

The  tragedy  had  its  effect  on  Keturah  Hand  in  a  per- 
ceptible loss  of  the  rude  vigour  which  had  always 
characterized  her.  She  failed  very  fast. 

Keturah  Hand  left  more  than  $200,000  which  passed 
to  her  brother,  John,  keeper  of  the  Lone  Cove  Coast 
Guard  Station,  and  this  was  settled  by  him  upon  his 
daughter,  Mrs.  Guy  Vanton,  with  whom,  after  he  quitted 
the  Coast  Guard  service,  he  lived  until  his  death.  The 
closing  years  of  John  Smiley's  life  were  years  of  quiet 
happiness.  He  had  a  comfortable  home,  he  had  his 
daughter,  and  he  had  about  him  her  four  children.  The 
oldest  was  named  for  him — John  Smiley  Vanton. 

The  father  of  the  four  children  perplexed  those 
youngsters  vastly  more  than  a  father  ought  to  do.  Guy 
Vanton  was  quiet,  self-contained,  sometimes  a  little 
dreamy,  rather  quickly  responsive  to  people  and  oc- 
currences about  him.  Fashioner  of  several  small 
volumes  of  verse  which  had  received  some  discriminat- 
ing praise,  he  was  also  the  author  of  at  least  one  play 
which  had  met  with  indifferent  success.  "At  least  one 
play,"  for  he  never  wrote  under  his  own  name  and 
never  used  the  same  pen  name  twice;  which  may  have 
been  the  result  of  modesty  or  of  something  else,  lack  of 


228  MERMAID 

confidence,  perhaps.  Once  or  twice  when  those  who 
knew  him  ventured  to  tax  him  with  this  peculiarity  he 
smiled  and  said  something  about  "changing  person- 
alities.** His  wife,  and  possibly  his  father-in-law,  could 
have  been  the  only  persons  to  fathom  his  odd  behaviour. 
They  knew  that  Guy  Vanton  considered  himself  a 
nameless  man,  something  less  than  human,  a  mis- 
shapen legacy  of  a  past  at  once  monstrous  and  oppres- 
sive. 

There  are  many  kinds  of  oppression  in  the  world,  but 
the  one  that  is  never  completely  overthrown  is  the 
oppression  of  memory.  Nothing  could  entirely  dis- 
place from  Guy  Vanton's  life  the  first  thirty  years  of 
it — thirty  years,  the  entire  formative  period  in  the 
human  existence. 

The  mould  in  which  Guy  Vanton  had  been  shaped 
was  broken  just  before  his  marriage  with  Mary  Smiley, 
called  Mermaid,  but  that  was  too  late.  The  plasticity 
of  youth  was  gone.  And  after  a  thing  has  begun  to 
"set"  what  matters  is  not  the  shape  but  the  material. 
Clay  is  often  very  beautiful,  it  has  some  exquisite  col- 
ourings; it  remains  clay. 

In  a  characteristic  fit  of  melancholia  Guy  Vanton 
executed  a  deed  by  which  he  placed  all  his  property  in 
trust  for  his  wife  and  his  children.  And  having  by  this 
act  safeguarded  them  so  far  as  a  man  may,  the  man 
wrote  a  few  lines  informing  his  wife  of  what  he  had  done 
and  dropped  out  of  sight. 


MERMAID  229 

II 

Mrs.  Guy  Vanton's  closest  friend,  at  the  time  of  her 
husband's  disappearance,  was  Tom  Lupton,  the  Tommy 
Lupton  of  her  girlhood,  who  had  succeeded  her  father  as 
keeper  of  the  Lone  Cove  Coast  Guard  Station.  She 
went  to  Tommy — she  had,  very  humanly  and  naturally, 
to  go  to  someone — to  tell  him  the  news  and  talk  over 
with  him  what  should  be  done.  She  felt  that  she  could 
the  more  honourably  do  this  as  Tom  and  her  husband 
had  been  firm  friends  from  the  time,  now  many  years 
ago,  when  seventeen-year-old  Guy  Vanton  had  thrown 
fifteen-year-old  Tommy  Lupton  three  times  in  a  wres- 
tling match  of  an  unexpected  character.  Mary  Smiley 
Vanton  knew  all  about  that  match  and  knewthe  occasion 
of  it,  which  had  been  herself.  She  was  not  self-conscious 
enough  to  suppose,  however,  that  the  outcome  of  that 
encounter  in  a  clearing  in  the  woods  joined  to  certain 
sequential  events  had  kept  Tom  Lupton  a  bachelor  all 
these  years.  If  she  had  thought  about  it  at  all  she 
would  probably  have  argued,  quite  justly,  that  the  life 
of  a  Coast  Guardsman  on  the  Great  South  Beach  is  not 
favourable  to  marriage. 

"This  has  not  hit  me  so  badly  as  I  should  have 
thought  it  would,"  she  confessed  to  her  old  friend  as 
they  sat  together  in  the  living  room  of  the  house  John 
Hawkins  had  built,  almost  a  century  earlier,  for  him- 
self and  his  wife.  "Nor  so  badly,  I  am  afraid,  as  it 


230  MERMAID 

ought  to  hit  me.     Which  is  a  wicked  sign,  or  a  sign  of 
wickedness,  I  suppose.     Not  a  good  sign,  anyway.*' 

"Why?"  Tom  Lupton  wanted  to  know. 

"Because,"  she  answered,  "when  things  are  not  as 
bad  as  we  expect  them  to  be  we  generally  think  them  a 
good  deal  better  than  they  are." 

Tom  Lupton  turned  over  the  implications  of  this 
remark  in  his  mind  for  several  minutes.  At  length  he 
asked:  "I  imagine  you  have  decided  what  you  want  to 
do?" 

Mrs.  Vanton  let  her  hands  fall  loosely  in  her  lap. 
They  had  been  hovering  for  a  moment  over  dark  red 
hair,  as  heavy  in  its  coils,  as  full  of  sombre  brilliance,  as 
it  had  been  on  the  day  of  her  marriage  to  Guy  Vanton. 
The  milky  whiteness  of  her  skin  was  not  suggestive  of  a 
woman  nearly  forty.  Her  face  was  unwrinkled  and 
her  blue  eyes  were  keen;  reflecting,  not  reflective.  Only 
in  the  look  of  her  mouth  was  there  some  slight  alteration 
indicative  of  the  passage,  not  so  much  of  time,  as  of 
experience. 

"There  are  only  two  things  to  do,  of  course,"  she 
answered.  "One  is  to  search  actively  for  him,  and  the 
other  is  to  accept  the  situation.  Were  I  free  to  do  so 
I  think  I  should  go  out  and  try  to  find  him.  That 
might  be  against  his  wish  but  I  should  feel  I  had  to  do  it. 
But  I  am  not  free.  There  are  the  children,  four  of 
them.  They  are  my  children  as  well  as  his,  and  I  must 
do  my  best  for  them.  I'm  sure  that  he  wanted  to  do 


MERMAID  231 

his  best  for  them,  and  he  must  have  believed  that  in 
acting  as  he  has  done  he  was  doing  it." 

She  paused  and  looked  at  Tom  Lupton  expectantly, 
as  if  waiting  to  be  prompted  further.  And  indeed,  this 
may  subconsciously  have  been  her  need  of  him.  It  was 
not  so  much  that  she  needed  his  advice  and  counsel,  in 
all  likelihood,  as  that  she  needed  someone  who  by  a 
listening  presence  and  by  an  occasional  question  or 
comment  would  help  her  to  think  the  thing  out  and 
reach  and  record  a  clear  conclusion.  Her  friend  may 
have  been  aware  of  this.  At  any  rate,  he  said:  "Poor 
old  Guy!  I  don't  think  he's  to  blame,  do  you?" 

For  an  instant  she  was  horrified  by  a  conjecture. 

"You  don't  mean  that  you  think  he  was  not  him- 
self? That  he  was — out  of  his  mind  or  anything  like 
that?" 

The  man  hastily  disclaimed  any  such  idea. 

"I  only  meant,"  he  said,  "that  the  person  who  is  to 
blame  is  that  old  beast  who  brought  him  up." 

At  this  reference  to  Captain  Buel  Vanton  she  shud- 
dered slightly,  then  said:  "Yes,  of  course.  But  that 
would  be  a  hopeful  augury.  Jacob  King  disappeared 
and  Captain  Vanton  turned  up  in  Blue  Port.  It  was 
as  if  Dr.  Jekyll  had  triumphed  over  Mr.  Hyde." 

"I'd  hardly  call  Captain  Vanton  a  Dr.  Jekyll,"  Tom 
Lupton  dissented. 

Mary  Vanton  went  on:  "I  think  my  husband  wanted 
to  remove  from  our  children's  lives  any  trace  of  the 


232  MERMAID 

darkness  in  which  he  himself  grew  up.  He  had,  as  you 
know,  his  moods  of  profound  dejection,  never  lasting, 
but  liable  to  make  us  all  unhappy  with  the  sense  of 
something  that  could  not  be  shaken  off.  It  wasn't  his 
fault.  Had  the  children  been  older  it  would  not  have 
mattered  so  much.  But,  as  you  know,  they  all  wor- 
shipped him." 

With  the  idea  of  helping  her  past  this  obstacle  the 
man  said:  "You  have  made  up  your  mind  what  you  will 
tell  them — the  children?" 

She  made  a  sound  of  assent. 

"To  John,  the  oldest,  I  shall  tell  part  of  the  whole 
story.  I  shall  tell  him  of  his  father's  boyhood  and  of 
Captain  Vanton's  life  here  in  Blue  Port;  I  shall  simply 
tell  him  that  Captain  Vanton  was  an  insane  man  whose 
idea  was  that  the  world  was  so  full  of  wickedness  that 
no  boy  of  his  could  be  trusted  in  it;  and  so  he  kept  his 
boy  tied  closely  to  a  dreary  old  house  with  two  old 
persons  in  it,  the  one  always  sick,  the  other  insane.  I 
shall  tell  him — John — that  his  father  has  never  got 
over  that  experience,  that  the  memory  of  it  was  what 
made  him  so  unhappy  from  time  to  time,  that  he  real- 
ized that  these  spells  made  everybody  about  him  un- 
happy and  worried.  Then  I  shall  tell  John  that  his 
father,  unable  to  overcome  these  feelings,  has  simply 
gone  away.  I 'shall  tell  the  boy  that  we  may  never 
see  him  again,  that  he  may  come  back  some  day 
entirely  recovered  and  well  and  cheerful,  or  that  we 


MERMAID  233 

may  see  him  return  ill  and  old  and  unhappier  than 
ever. 

"That  much  I  can  say  to  my  oldest;  but  I  can  and  I 
shall  say  much  more,  and  of  greater  importance.  I 
want  to  impress  upon  him  that  he  is  the  oldest  and  that 
I  now  have  no  one  nearly  related  to  me  upon  whom  I 
can  depend  except  himself.  He  must  be  as  much  of  a 
man  for  my  sake  as  he  has  it  in  him  to  be. 

"Later,  of  course,  I  shall  tell  him  more.  I  want  to 
tell  him  now  enough  to  awaken  in  him  the  sense  of  re- 
sponsibility. As  for  the  incentive  to  live  up  to  that 
responsibility,  that  exists  in  myself,  his  mother,  and 
his  brother  and  two  sisters,  younger  than  he.  The 
other  incentive,  which  would  exist  if  we  were  poor  or 
penniless,  I  can't  create  for  him. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  continued,  thoughtfully,  after  a 
moment's  pause.  "I  don't  know.  Perhaps  I  ought 
to  spend  every  cent  I  have — /  have;  you  know  I  can't 
touch  Guy's  money — in  hunting  for  him.  But — I'm  a 
mother.  The  instinct  of  the  mother  is  to  guard  every- 
thing for  her  children.  Money,  and  other  things.  I 
can't  go  away  on  a  hunt  that  might  last  for  years  and 
leave  them.  But  what  is  most  important  is  this:  If  I 
go  looking  for  Guy  what  will  the  children  think  of 
their  father?  What  shall  I  tell  them?  Won't  they 
think  of  him  as  a  sort  of  guilty  fugitive,  a  deserter,  some- 
one to  be  hunted  and  tracked  down  and  brought  to 
some  sort  of  justice?  Of  course  they  will.  And  how 


234  MERMAID 

far  could  I  keep  the  whole  story  from  them?  I'm 
afraid  there  wouldn't  be  much  that  they  wouldn't 
quickly  know,  and  what  they  didn't  know  would  be 
matter  for  dreadful  guesses. 

"Their  whole  young  lives  would  be  dominated  by 
their  father's  act  and  the  things  that  lay  behind  it, 
things  they  must  not  know  until  they  are  older.  Their 
whole  young  lives  would  be  shaped  by  the  circumstance 
that  their  father  ran  away  from  something — or  to 
something." 

Tom  Lupton,  smoking  quietly,  looked]up  at  her  at  that. 

"It  was  really  running  away  to  something  and  not 
from  something,  I  think,"  he  said. 

Mary  Vanton  developed  this  idea. 

"Decidedly,"  she  assured  him.  "The  only  thing 
that  Guy  could  have  wished  to  run  away  from  was  the 
past;  and  there  is  no  escape  from  that  except  in  the 
present.  The  future  doesn't  count,  can't  be  made  to 
count  for  the  purposes  of  escape.  Guy  was  running 
away  to  the  present — the  present  outside  himself. 
Outside  of  us  here.  Out  in  the  world  he  will  find  some- 
thing that  he  ought  to  have  had  in  the  past.  I  feel 
that,  even  though  I  can't  say  just  what  it  is  he  will  find. 
It  amounts  to  this,  I  think:  he  will  get  a  new  past,  and 
when  he  has  got  it  he  will  bring  it  back  to  us.  He  will 
come  back  to  us  entirely  reconstructed,  the  same  and 
yet  quite  different." 

He  was  glad,  with  the  gladness  of  a  sincere  and  honour- 


MERMAID  235 

able  friendship,  to  see  her  choice  of  the  alternatives 
that  awaited  Guy  Vanton,  who  might  conceivably,  but 
not  very  probably,  return. 

"The  younger  children  I  shall  tell  as  little  as  possible 
— and  that  what  John  and  I  decide  upon,"  Mary  Van- 
ton  was  saying.  "I  am  going  to  take  all  the  children 
and  go  over  to  the  beach  house  for  the  summer.  It  will 
give  everything  a  chance  to  settle,  including  ourselves. 
I  am  glad  now  that  we  built  a  really  comfortable  house 
on  the  beach  and  I  am  glad  it  is  at  some  distance  from 
any  of  the  beach  settlements.  It  is  not  too  far  from 
Lone  Cove  for  you  to  get  over  rather  frequently  to  see 
us.  With  the  boys  you  can  help  me  a  lot.  Then  in  the 
fall  I  shall  send  John  to  school  and  I  may  take  the 
younger  children  and  go  away  somewhere." 

Tom  Lupton  rose.  She  offered  him  her  hand  and  he 
shook  it  warmly.  She  smiled  at  him. 

"Thank  you,  Tom,"  she  said.  "You  are  a  good 
friend,  and  you  have  helped  me  as  much  this  day  as  in 
all  the  rest  of  your  life  put  together." 

For  a  second  an  impulse  to  tell  her  how  much  he  had 
always  wanted  to  help  her  nearly  took  him  off  his  feet. 
A  slight  quiver  passed  along  his  tall,  broad-shouldered 
frame,  and  beneath  the  browned  surface  of  his  cheek  a 
muscle  moved  slightly.  His  voice  was  the  least  bit 
husky  as  he  said:  "Any  time.  Any  time  at  all.  Send 
for  me." 

He  went  out,  quickly. 


236  MERMAID 

III 

The  unaccountable  gray  eyes  of  John  Smiley  Vanton 
looked  straight  at  his  mother  as  she  talked  to  him. 
They  saved  her  a  good  deal.  In  a  way  they  offset  the 
black  hair  and  the  snub  nose  which  made  him  so  strongly 
resemble,  outwardly  at  least,  his  father.  And  there  was 
something  wonderfully  cool  and  strong,  to  the  mother, 
in  the  grayness  of  those  boyish  eyes.  Granite  colour. 

"You  aren't  telling  me  everything,  mother,"  said  the 
boy. 

She  admitted  it.  In  extenuation  she  promised  that 
when  he  was  older  he  should  know  the  rest. 

"You  see,  John,  it  really  isn't  all  mine  to  tell.  If  your 
father  were  dead  it  would  be  different.  But  there  are 
some  things  which  it  is  his  right  to  tell  you,  and  to  be 
the  only  one  to  tell  you,  while  he  lives.  Suppose  he 
were  to  come  back  in  a  month  or  a  year;  then  he  could 
take  it  up  with  you  himself,  and  that  would  be  much 
fairer." 

He  considered  this  and  approved  it. 

"I  ought  to  tell  you  this,"  his  mother  added,  "there 
is  nothing  that  dishonours  your  father  in  what  I  have 
not  told." 

"You  know  it  all?"  he  asked.  "Everything  there 
is  to  tell?" 

"I  know  all  that  there  is  to  know,"  she  assured  him, 
gravely. 


MERMAID  237 

With  this  he  was  satisfied.  They  then  spoke  about 
his  sister  Keturah,  who  was  two  years  younger.  "You'd 
better,"  John  told  his  mother,  "tell  her  just  what 
you've  told  me.  She'll  hear  it,  anyway.  Guy  and 
Mermaid  are  only  ten  and  six  and  don't  matter  much. 
I'll  talk  to  Guy." 

The  masterful  assumption  of  responsibility  toward  his 
younger  brother  pleased  Mary  Vanton.  She  checked 
an  impulse  to  fold  him  to  her.  She  offered  her  hand 
instead  and  he  shook  it,  manifestly  proud  to  conclude  a 
compact  of  equals. 

Keturah  Vanton  listened  to  her  mother's  explanation 
silently.  Tears  stood  in  her  eyes,  but  her  anxiety 
seemed  to  be  mostly  for  her  mother.  She  asked  her 
no  questions  but  kissed  her  with  fervour.  Ten-year-old 
Guy  heard  what  his  older  brother  told  him  with  the 
incuriosity  of  a  person  engaged  in  an  intensive  task  of 
teaching  a  new  dog  old  tricks. 

"Play  dead,  Dick,"  he  commanded.  Dick  obeyed  by 
rising  hastily  and  loping  away.  At  which  six-year-old 
Mermaid  burst  out  crying  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 
For  some  time  afterward  she  appeared  to  entertain  the 
appalling  notion  that  her  father  had  disappeared  rather 
than  play  dead. 

Mary  Vanton  lost  no  time  in  settling  her  house  in 
Blue  Port  and  taking  her  family  over  to  the  beach. 
She  and  her  husband  had  what  was  by  no  means  the 
most  expensive  house  on  that  sand  barrier  separating 


238  MERMAID 

i 

bay  and  ocean,  though  it  had  always  seemed  to  both  of 

them  the  most  comfortable.  It  fronted  squarely  on 
the  ocean,  bulwarked  and  protected  by  a  tall  and  grassy 
line  of  dunes.  There  were  a  half  dozen  bedrooms  and, 
on  the  ground  floor,  two  immense  living  rooms  with 
fireplaces.  The  house  was  constructed  with  unusual 
care  and  was  habitable  even  in  winter.  And  it  gave, 
to  the  everlasting  joy  of  those  whose  home  it  was,  on 
the  veritable  sea.  For  the  eternal  Atlantic,  the  "West- 
ern Ocean"  of  sailors,  is  a  breeding  ground  of  men. 
A  cleanser  and  sweetener  of  continents  and  islands,  the 
ocean  of  storms  and  the  ocean  of  victories,  at  once  the 
world's  greatest  highway  and  the  last,  the  perpetual 
frontier.  A  sight  nowhere  transcended ! 

Mary  Vanton  often  looked  upon  it.  It  renewed  in 
her  the  sense  of  wonder,  the  sense  of  mystery,  the  feeling 
of  hope,  without  which  the  soul  is  extinguished,  without 
which  the  very  heart  of  life  dies. 

IV 

Tom  Lupton  got  over  to  see  the  Vantons  at  least 
twice  a  week  through  the  summer.  And  whether  she 
was  on  the  wide  veranda  or  sitting  under  a  beach  parasol 
on  the  sand  while  the  children  bathed  in  the  surf,  Mary 
Vanton  was  always  glad  to  see  him.  Sometimes  she 
found  herself  looking  forward  to  his  coming,  and  then 
she  had  a  moment  of  hesitation  and  self-rebuke.  Yet 
.  .  .  why  should  she  not?  She  expected  a  visitor 


MERMAID  239 

in  September  and  contemplated  his  coming  with  a 
pleasurable  interest,  as  she  told  Tom  Lupton. 

"You'll  be  glad  to  see  Dick  Hand  again,  won't  you?" 
she  asked,  as  they  sat  on  the  beach  together. 

"Why,  sure,"  Tom  answered,  with  some  surprise. 
"Is  he  coming  out?"  Dick  was  still  in  New  York,  a 
chemical  engineer  of  tremendous  reputation.  His  lat- 
est feat  had  been  to  develop  some  old  and  neglected 
patents  that  were  his  father's.  The  rights  had  nearly 
expired  when  Dick  got  to  work  at  them  and  made  im- 
provements that  enabled  him  to  re-patent  them.  He 
thought  he  was  going  to  make  a  fortune — or  another 
fortune.  He  had  several  already. 

"What  are  those  patents  of  his,  anyway?"  asked 
Tom  Lupton,  rather  perfunctorily. 

"Why,  they  are  processes  with  oyster  shells  by  which 
he  makes  a  sort  of  concrete  that  can  be  used  for  flooring, 
and  some  other  substance  that  is  good  for  roofs." 

Tom  Lupton  grew  interested. 

"Are  those  the  patents  he  got  from  your  aunt?" 
he  inquired.  "I  mean  the  ones  his  father  got  from 
her?" 

"I  don't  know.     What  were  those?" 

Mary  Vanton  had  never  heard  the  story,  but  Tom 
Lupton  had,  and  he  related  how  Keturah  Smiley,  later 
Keturah  Hand,  had  bested  Richard  Hand,  Sr. 

Mary  Vanton  heard  it  through  and  then  exclaimed: 
"Wasn't  that  like  Aunt  Keturah?  I'm  glad,  though, 


240  MERMAID 

that  Dick  is  going  to  make  something  out  of  the 
patents." 

"It  seems  almost  as  if  you  really  had  a  stake  in  them," 
commented  Keeper  Tom.  "Your  aunt  gave  them 
away,  practically,  if  they  are  worth  anywhere  near 
what  Dick  seems  to  think  they  are." 

"Oh,  no;  I  have  no  right  of  any  sort  in  them,"  she 
disclaimed,  quickly.  "Aunt  Keturah  must  have  parted 
with  them  with  the  full  consciousness  of  their  possible 
value.  She  would  never  have  realized  anything  from 
them  nor  would  I.  Besides,  the  greater  part  of  their 
value  has  probably  come  as  a  result  of  the  work  Dick 
has  done." 

"I  suppose  he  is  married  and  has  children,"  said 
Tom,  absently.  Mary  glanced  at  him  with  equal  in- 
difference as  she  responded  carelessly: 

"No." 

V 

Dick  Hand  at  forty-two  had,  as  has  been  said,  a 
tremendous  reputation  and  an  equally  tremendous 
dissatisfaction.  The  one  had  no  perceptible  relation 
to  the  other.  Of  the  one  the  world  was  thoroughly 
aware,  of  the  other  it  was  not.  His  dissatisfaction  was 
known  to  Richard  Hand  alone. 

There  were  times  when  it  swayed  him  absolutely, 
when  it  "came  over  him,"  and  he  could  not  get  away 
from  it.  He  could  not  have  told  you  what  it  was, 


MERMAID  241 

really;  for  sometimes  he  felt  it  to  be  one  thing,  some- 
times another.  Now  it  was  an  immense  discontent  with 
all  he  had  done  or  was  doing,  now  it  was  an  unreason- 
able irritation  with  life  itself. 

Everything,  he  found  at  such  times,  was  worthless. 

One  day,  in  a  fit  of  absolute  disgust,  he  went  to  a 
specialist.  He  had  no  expectation  that  the  man  could 
help  him,  but  he  had  got  where  he  must  do  some- 
thing. 

He  had  expected  to  be  shown  into  a  darkened  room 
where  a  fellow  more  or  less  dressed  for  a  part  would 
take  his  hand  gravely,  as  if  performing  a  rite,  and  then, 
retreating  to  the  distance  and  becoming  semi-invisible, 
would  intone  questions  in  a  ceremonial  voice  while  the 
conversation  was  written  down  on  the  wax  tablets  of  a 
silently  travelling  phonograph. 

But  the  office  was  as  unlike  that  as  possible,  and  so 
was  the  specialist. 

A  bright  room  with  a  sort  of  sun-parlour  on  the  south 
side,  a  place  of  wicker  furniture  and  cretonnes,  with 
books  and  magazines  lying  about  and  tobacco  on  the 
table.  With  his  eyeglasses  and  a  sober  seriousness  of 
face  when  in  repose,  the  man  who  received  him  was 
hardly  distinguishable  from  a  business  man  of  comfort- 
able habit,  moderately  large  affairs,  and  fairly  frequent 
preoccupations.  They  shook  hands;  the  specialist 
offered  Mr.  Hand  a  cigarette  and  took  one  himself. 

"Let's  come  out  here,"  he  said,  indicating  the  sun- 


242  MERMAID 

parlour.  "It's  pleasanter  and  the  chairs  are  better 
to  lounge  in." 

They  disposed  themselves  and  puffed  away  for  a  mo- 
ment or  two. 

"I've  come  to  see  if  you  can  help  me,"  explained 
Dick  Hand,  rather  desperately.  The  other  nodded. 

"I  get  fairly  sick  of — existence,"  Dick  went  on. 
"I'm  restless  and  rottenly  dissatisfied,  and  I  don't 
know  why.  Nothing  seems  to  mean  anything.  I  have 
these  spells,  and  they  are  commoner  than  they  used  to 
be." 

"Tell  me  all  about  yourself,"  suggested  the  other. 
"Only  what  you  call  to  mind  and  only  what  you  care 
to  tell." 

Dick  hesitated.  "I  thought,"  he  said,  "that  you 
people  asked  questions — to  get  at  certain  things  hidden 
from  us  of  whom  you  ask  them." 

"Well,  we  do  that,"  admitted  the  specialist.  "But 
it  usually  is  better  to  hear  a  man's  own  story  first. 
After  we  have  got  the  things  a  man  readily  recalls, 
comes  the  problem  of  getting  at  the  things  he  doesn't 
recall." 

"I  suppose  the  idea  is  the  relief  afforded  by  making 
a  clean  breast  of  things,"  hazarded  Dick. 

"Not  entirely.  It  goes  beyond  that.  It  aims  at 
relieving  unsuspected  pressures.  There's  a  sort  of  an 
analogy  in  a  physical  injury,  such  as  a  fracture.  The 
man  who  has  the  fracture  knows  that  something  is 


MERMAID  243 

wrong,  he  suffers  intense  pain,  but  he  doesn't  know  that 
a  bone  is  broken,  or,  if  he  does,  he  doesn't  know  just 
where,  nor  how  to  set  it.  And  he  suffers  too  much  to  be 
able  to  find  out." 

"Well,  there's  certainly  a  fracture  somewhere  in  my 
life,"  said  Dick  Hand,  grimly.  "And  I  suffer.  And  I 
don't  know  where  it  is  or  how  to  set  it." 

After  a  little  pause  he  entered  upon  his  story.  It 
was  when  he  had  entirely  finished  and  sat  silent  that 
the  specialist  spoke  again. 

"You  say  you  were  once  in  love?" 

"It  was  the  only  time  I  ever  was  in  love,"  replied 
Richard  Hand.  "She  was  two  years  younger  than  I. 
We  more  or  less  grew  up  together.  We  were  both  in 
our  twenties  when  she  refused  me  for  good  and  all. 
She  was  already  in  love  with  another  man  and  she  was 
married  to  him  a  little  later." 

"You  use  the  past  tense.     Is  she  dead?" 

"No,  she  isn't.  She  is  alive  and  has  four  children. 
Her  husband  has  disappeared  lately,  left  her  and  the 
children.  By  the  way,  he  would  make  a  case  for  you! 
If  you  could  cure  him  I'd  say  you  could  cure  anybody." 

"It  isn't  we  who  cure,"  explained  the  other  man  pa- 
tiently. "We  no  more  cure  a  man  than  does  the  sur- 
geon who  sets  a  broken  bone.  We  just  try,  like  him,  to 
get  things  straightened  out  so  they  can  cure  themselves. 
Tell  me  about  her  husband,  who  has  disappeared." 

Dick  recounted  Guy  Vanton's  story.     It  was  a  long 


244  MERMAID 

recital  but  the  specialist  seemed  interested.  At  the 
end  Dick  asked:  "What  do  you  make  of  it?'* 

"It  is  a  bad  case,"  thoughtfully,  "but  it  isn't  hope- 
less. It  might  even  come  out  all  right.  I'm  afraid  not, 
though.  If  she — if  his  wife  could  not  straighten  things 
out  for  him  there  isn't  much  likelihood  that  anybody 
else  can.  She  must  be  a  very  fine  woman.  And  they 
genuinely  loved  each  other.  No  doubt  of  that.  Love 
— and  children.  They  are  the  ultimate  satisfaction  of 
most  men  and  women,  but  not  of  all.  I  imagine  that  he 
is  an  exception  to  the  general  rule.  There  was  some- 
thing else  that  he  hadn't  got.  Perhaps  he  will  find  it." 

"A  fine  woman.  .  .  .  Love — and  children  .  .  . 
the  ultimate  satisfaction."  The  words  struck  some- 
thing in  Richard  Hand.  He  looked  up  suddenly  and 
spoke  in  a  harsh  voice: 

"I  suppose  if  I  had  got  her  and  if — if  they  were  my 
children  .  .  .  ?" 

The  adviser  looked  at  him  gravely. 

"I  think  there  is  no  doubt  about  it,"  he  answered. 

They  sat  there  in  the  gathering  twilight  for  some 
time  in  a  silence  fraught  with  the  pain  of  a  deep  revela- 
tion. Richard  Hand  struggled  with  the  thing  that  stood 
revealed  to  him  and  within  him.  After  a  while  he  said, 
in  words  that  seemed  to  choke  him:  "But  what  shall  I 
do?  What — what  can  I  do — about  it — now?" 

"Look  the  thing  full  in  the  face,  as  you  are  doing  now, 
and  conquer  it,"  the  other  counselled. 


MERMAID  245 

After  a  pause  he  went  on  to  explain:  "You  love  her, 
you  have  always  loved  her.  And  because  you  love  her 
you  will  love  her  children,  as  a  part  of  her.  As  long  as 
you  suppressed  your  love  for  her,  as  long  as  you  refused 
to  acknowledge  it  even  to  yourself,  so  long  it  continued 
to  punish  you  in  other  ways.  It  did  not  so  act  upon 
you  as  to  prevent  you  doing  good  work  and  profiting 
by  it;  but  when  you  had  done  great  work  and  had 
profited  by  it  this  suppressed  longing  stepped  in  and 
robbed  you  of  the  reward  you  had  earned  by  destroying 
all  the  beauty  and  meaning  of  life  for  you,  by  turning 
your  victories  to  ashes  in  your  mouth,  by  making  every- 
thing you  were  doing  or  had  done  or  might  do,  pointless 
and  futile.  For  you  the  final  satisfaction  would  have 
lain  exclusively  in  doing  all  these  things  for  her. 

"Why  haven't  you  done  them  for  her?  Why  don't 
you?  You  can.  You  can  make  her  yours  and  her  chil- 
dren your  own.  I'm  not,  of  course,  suggesting  anything 
disgraceful  or  dishonourable.  I  am  suggesting  that 
you  look  the  truth  in  the  face  like  an  honest  man — 
though  you  haven't  been  intentionally  dishonest  with 
yourself.  Outward  conventions  are  responsible  for 
most  of  the  ingrowing  minds.  Look  the  truth  in  the 
face  like  an  honest  man  and  fight  the  good  fight  like  a 
brave  man. 

"Say  to  yourself — you  won't  have  to  say  it  to  her — 
just  this:  'I  love  her;  I  have  always  loved  her.  I 
always  shall.  I  have  done  everything  I  have  done  for 


246  MERMAID 

her,  always,  though  I  didn't  perhaps  know  it,  and  cer- 
tainly did  not  admit  it.  It  isn't  wrong  to  recognize  it 
and  it's  not  wrong  to  admit  it  to  myself;  it's  merely  a 
piece  of  honesty,  and  it's  an  outlet  for  what  would 
otherwise  be  suppressed  and  denied  until  it  fouled  and 
poisoned  my  whole  life.  At  the  same  time  this  thing 
must  be  kept  under  control,  just  as  any  outlet  must 
be  controlled.  I  mustn't  let  it,  in  its  flow,  do  damage 
as  great  as  it  would  in  its  stagnation — and  a  worse. 
I  must  be  as  honest  as  the  day  about  it  and  as  strong 
as  I  am  honest."' 

It  was  quite  dark.  The  two  sat  there  motionless  for 
a  while.  Then  Richard  Hand  got  up  and  came  toward 
the  other  man,  offering  him  his  hand. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  was  boyish  and 
alive.  "I  think  you  have  shown  me  a  way  out — if  I 
am  strong  enough  to  take  it  and  hold  to  it.  I — I  think 
I  shall  go  and  visit  her — and  find  out." 

The  adviser  gripped  his  hand  and  shook  it  warmly. 

"Go,  by  all  means,"  he  declared.  "Nothing  is  gained 
by  denial  of  the  truth;  nothing  is  gained  by  suppression. 
Everything  worth  winning  is  won  by  fighting,  and  there 
is  no  impulse  in  us  which  cannot  be  bitted  and  bridled 
and  curbed  and  made  to  serve  us  for  a  righteous  end." 

VI 

It  was  like  an  Old  Home  Week,  Mary  Vanton  de- 
clared, when  the  three  of  them  were  all  together  on  the 


MERMAID  247 

ocean  shore  in  front  of  the  beach  house.  Dick  had  come 
down  with  the  promise  to  stay  a  week  and  was  living 
at  the  Coast  Guard  Station  with  Tommy.  At  least 
he  was  sleeping  there  and  so,  formally,  Tommy's  guest. 
Actually  he  was  Mary's  guest  and  all  his  hours  were 
spent  at  her  house  or  on  the  bay  with  her  and  the 
children,  or  in  the  surf  with  the  children.  Except  for 
breakfast,  which  he  and  Tommy  got  for  themselves,  he 
ate  at  the  Vantons'.  Tommy,  too,  contrived  to  spend 
a  good  deal  of  time  at  the  Vantons'  and  to  take  rather 
better  than  half  his  meals  there  that  week.  Although 
as  Keeper  he  remained  technically  on  duty  at  the  Coast 
Guard  Station  through  the  summer  months,  there  was 
actually  little  for  him  to  do. 

"It's  rather  hard  on  the  visitors,"  he  explained  to 
Mary  about  his  absences,  "who  come  over  in  droves, 
mornings  and  afternoons,  but  even  if  I  were  there  I 
couldn't  demonstrate  the  use  of  the  apparatus  myself 
without  the  aid  of  any  of  my  crew." 

The  three  sat  regarding  the  ocean  in  which  the 
four  children  were  frolicking.  The  two  boys  could 
both  swim,  but  were  wisely  not  attempting  to  do  more 
than  duck  in  and  out  of  the  breakers. 

"I  think  I  shall  stay  here  all  winter,"  Mary  Vanton 
said,  suddenly. 

The  men  looked  at  her,  but  neither  spoke. 

"I  have  always  loved  the  beach,"  she  went  on,  after 
a  little  hesitation.  "I  have  always  thought  I  should 


248  MERMAID 

like  to  live  here.     We  shall  be  comfortable  and  I  think 
it  will  be  good  for  the  children." 

She  spoke  in  a  matter-of-fact  way.  Tommy  Lupton 
wondered  if  she  was  setting  herself  a  vigil  of  watching 
and  waiting  against  the  possibility  and  improbability 
of  her  husband's  return.  Richard  Hand  also  thought 
of  this,  but  decided — he  could  hardly  have  said  why— 
that  there  was  something  she  wanted  to  think  out,  some 
plan  she  wanted  to  arrive  at  respecting  herself  and  the 
children.  Here,  in  a  comparative  isolation,  she  could 
work  it  out  for  herself.  It  seemed  more  in  her  charac- 
ter, somehow. 

VII 

When  he  left,  Guy  Vanton  had  in  his  pocket  the  sum 
of  $350.  With  part  of  this  he  bought  a  railway  ticket 
to  San  Francisco.  He  boarded  the  train,  and  as  it  was 
evening,  dined,  retreated  to  the  club  car,  smoked  and 
read  for  a  couple  of  hours,  and  then  went  to  his  compart- 
ment. 

The  main  thing  was  plainly  to  hit  upon  something  to 
do  that  would  make  a  little  money,  enough  for  his 
necessities,  while  he  made  acquaintance  with  the  world, 
the  real  world,  the  world  outside  himself,  outside  Blue 
Port,  outside  his  peculiar  past. 

It  had  taken  him  a  long  time  to  realize  that  what  he 
needed,  what  he  must  have  if  life  were  to  become  worth 
living,  was  a  touchstone  in  the  shape  of  some  direct 


MERMAID  249 

experience,  real  and  rough — something  that  would  not 
be  eaten  away  by  the  acid  of  his  thoughts  nor  carven 
into  gargoyles  and  grotesques,  the  chisellings  of  memory. 
Guy  Vanton  was  a  poet.  It  was  natural  that  he 
should  recall  the  lives  and  adventures  of  other  poets, 
and  in  the  performance  of  Vachel  Lindsay  he  found  an 
example  of  what  he  sought.  Lindsay  had  gone  about 
the  country  with  scrip  and  wallet  preaching  a  gospel, 
the  gospel  of  beauty,  exchanging  his  poems,  printed  on 
slips  of  paper,  for  food  and  lodging.  In  the  Colorado 
ranges,  along  Southern  roads  to  the  doors  of  moun- 
taineers' cabins,  by  Kansas  wheatfields,  and  over 
stretches  of  prairie,  from  farmhouse  to  farmhouse  Lind- 
say had  travelled — chanting,  reading,  conversing,  dis- 
coursing— and  these  adventures  he  had  afterward 
chronicled.  Guy  had  no  armful  of  poems  to  read  in 
exchange  for  food  and  a  bed;  he  was  certainly  not  the 
possessor  of  a  gospel  that  people  would  stop  to  hear. 
He  could  not  emulate  Lindsay  and  the  idea  of  doing  it, 
to  give  him  credit,  never  entered  his  head.  What 
struck  him  was  the  fact  that  in  America,  at  any  rate, 
there  was  still  room  for  a  pioneer.  Americans  find 
something  zestful  and  admirable  in  the  spectacle  of  a 
man  breaking  a  new  path. 

VIII 

He  was  a  long  time  turning  the  matter  over  in  his 
mind.     And  after  it  all,  he  could  make  up  his  mind  to 


250  MERMAID 

one  thing  only.  He  would  go  through  with  what  he 
had  begun.  This  journey  to  San  Francisco,  for  in- 
stance. Once  there  he  would  look  about.  .  .  . 
He  could,  at  any  rate,  go  to  the  Federal  Employment 
Bureau,  and  see  what  he  could  get  in  the  way  of  work. 
A  job.  Something  to  do.  Something  to  worry  about. 
Something  two-fisted,  hard  .  .  .  but  not  hopeless. 

IX 

He  got  it.  Lying  in  San  Francisco  Bay  was  the 
British  ship  Sea  Wanderer,  of  Liverpool,  a  vessel  of 
2,000  tons,  old  and  rather  disreputable  in  appearance, 
ready  to  carry  such  cargo  as  she  could  get  and  make  a 
precarious  profit  for  her  owners.  Soon  she  would  be 
scrapped.  That  is,  if  she  did  not  go  to  pieces  first. 

And  yet  despite  the  clumsiness  of  her  outline,  with 
all  her  sail  set,  she  was  a  beauty,  a  perfect  swan  of  a 
ship;  a  swan  with  a  streaked  and  dark  and  dirty  breast 
and  body.  She  had  loaded  with  grain  at  Port  Costa 
and  now  lay  anchored  in  midstream  waiting  to  get  a 
crew.  The  skipper,  a  Welshman  of  Cardiff,  had  a 
charter  to  fulfil  and  was  rapidly  growing  frantic.  He 
was  shipping  anything  and  anybody  who  offered.  He 
took  a  sharp  look  at  Guy  Vanton,  noted  the  fact  that 
here  was  a  man  no  longer  young,  noted  the  further  fact 
that  this  man  no  longer  young  was  a  person  of  intelli- 
gence and  education,  found  out  that  Guy  had  had  no 
sea  experience,  cursed  a  little,  computed  wages,  remem- 


MERMAID  251 

bered  that  Guy  would  be  so  many  added  pounds  of 
beef  on  a  rope  and  took  him. 

The  passage  was  from  San  Francisco  to  Leith  in 
Scotland.  In  the  course  of  it  Guy  put  on  fifteen  pounds 
and  came  to  a  clear  understanding  with  himself  and  at 
least  one  man  of  the  crew. 

They  fought,  he  and  this  other  man,  in  the  waist, 
surrounded  by  a  ring  of  seamen  whose  sympathy  was 
entirely  against  Guy  and  with  the  Scotchman,  named 
Macpherson.  Macpherson  was  about  ten  pounds 
heavier  than  Guy  but  made  the  mistake  of  clinching. 
Whereupon  Guy  turned  the  fight  into  a  wrestling  match 
and  threw  his  opponent.  Macpherson's  head  striking 
on  an  iron  butt,  there  was  no  more  battle  in  him  that 
day.  Nor  did  he  challenge  Guy  in  the  rest  of  the 
passage. 

Guy's  understanding  with  himself  was  as  forcible  and 
as  fortuitous.  It  was  gained,  as  such  comprehensions 
are,  in  loneliness  and  in  struggle.  He  got  some  of  it  on 
the  ship's  yards,  striving  with  half-frozen  fingers  to 
clutch  the  wet  and  stiffened  sail.  He  got  some  more 
of  it  as  he  lay  at  night  in  the  tropics  on  the  hatch,  look- 
ing up  at  a  star-sprinkled  and  gently  rocking  sky.  He 
got  most  of  it  in  the  spectacle  of  his  fellows,  a  race  of 
men  dedicated  to  the  achievement  of  a  common  purpose 
for  no  real  or  visible  reward.  Certainly  they  did  not 
sail  the  seas  for  the  sake  of  the  few  dollars  it  put  in 
their  pockefs.  They  could  live  more  comfortably 


252  MERMAID 

ashore  in  the  easeful  jails  for  vagrants — "with  running 
water  and  everything,"  as  one  of  them  put  it.  They 
were  where  they  were  for  the  sake  of  doing  something 
together.  They  would  sail  that  ship  from  port  to  port. 
They  would  sail  her  along  a  trackless  path  across  the 
eternal  frontier  of  the  ocean  in  a  voyage  without  pre- 
cedent. Every  ship,  it  came  home  to  Guy  Vanton,  is  a 
Santa  Maria\  every  sailor  a  Columbus.  If  they  failed, 
they  failed  gallantly;  if  they  succeeded,  they  succeeded 
in  an  enterprise  bigger  than  themselves. 

And  they  did  succeed.  At  night,  under  the  glare  of 
the  arc-lights,  alongside  a  stone  quay  at  Leith  they 
stood,  a  patient  little  group  up  forward,  and  heard  the 
mate,  standing  on  the  fo'c's'le  head,  address  them  with 
the  immemorial  benediction  of  the  sea,  four  words : 

"That'll  do  ye,  men." 

A  straggling  cheer  went  up  and  they  turned  to  the 
shore. 

X 

Guy  Vanton  saw  now  what  he  had  never  seen  before, 
what  he  had  come  more  than  15,000  miles  to  see:  that 
the  world  of  men  and  women  is  a  fellowship  into  which 
all  are  admitted  in  such  degree  as  they  care  to  enter  and 
on  such  terms  as  they  make  for  themselves. 

Without  any  subtleties  he  perceived  that  the  past 
could  bind  him  only  in  so  far  as  he  allowed  it  to  do  so. 
It  was  not  his  father  who  proposed  him  for  fellowship  in 


MERMAID  253 

the  community  of  men  and  women,  nor  could  his  father 
withhold  that  fellowship  from  him. 

Nor  his  mother,  nor  anything  that  they  had  done  or 
left  undone.  With  the  birth  of  every  mortal  a  new  and 
clean  page  is  turned  in  human  history. 

Every  man  writes  his  own  page.  What  had  he 
written  ?  And  he  was  getting  out  of  middle  age- ,  There 
was  not  so  much  more  time  left  to  write.  Not  so  much 
space. 

He  would  go  home  to  her  whom  he  should  never  have 
left;  to  her  whose  page  opened  facing  his;  to  her,  the 
mother  of  his  children,  whom  he  had  left  to  teach  them, 
unaided  by  him,  how  to  write  on  the  clean,  white  page. 

Together  they  would  work  out  something  better  than 
themselves.  What  is  written,  lives  on.  What  they 
wrote  would  stand  as  a  record,  for  better  or  worse,  after 
they  were  through  inscribing  it.  The  thing  was — it 
must  be  done  together. 

He  wandered  about  Edinburgh  for  a  week  and  then 
shipped  for  New  York  from  Liverpool.  This  was  in 
early  winter. 

XI 

Before  Richard  Hand  said  good-bye  to  Mary  Vanton 
that  September  he  told  her  frankly  of  his  love  for  her. 

"I  am  not  doing  a  dishonourable  thing,"  he  insisted. 
"If  I  tell  you  this,  now,  it  is  my  right  to  speak  and  your 
right  to  hear." 


254  MERMAID 

Mary  Vanton  sat  looking  directly  at  him,  the  bril- 
liance gone  from  her  blue  eyes,  the  depths  in  them  show- 
ing, the  depths  in  her  showing,  too,  in  the  way  she 
listened,  and  the  words  she  uttered.  Her  wonderful 
hair,  darkly  red,  lay  framed  against  the  white  linen  of 
a  chair  covering,  a  chair  with  a  tall  back  that  seemed  to 
shield  and  protect  her  and  bring  out  in  relief  the 
milky  whiteness  of  her  fine  skin,  unchanged  by  the  sun. 
and  salt  air,  like  a  pure  and  unspotted  marble. 

"No,"  she  said,  slowly,  "it  is  not  dishonourable.  For 
it  is  not  myself,  Mary  Vanton,  that  you  love,  but  the 
girl  Mermaid.  I  am  not  she.  I  am  much  altered." 

"You  are  Mermaid,"  he  said,  simply,  and  in  his  voice 
there  was  reverence. 

She  shook  her  head  at  this  and  seemed  to  fall  to 
pondering  the  questions  his  confession  raised. 

"Your  husband,"  he  went  on,  "has  deliberately 
turned  his  back.  It  is  necessary  that  you  should  have 
some  material  assistance.  It  will  be  necessary — from 
time  to  time.  I  don't  mean  money,  but  I  do  mean 
counsel,  advice,  someone  to  talk  things  over  with,  help 
with  the  children,  particularly  with  the  boys.  Young 
John,  for  example.  He's  fourteen  and  you  are  sending 
him  away  to  school.  You're  letting  me  take  him  and 
you  don't  know  what  it  means  to  me!"  Like  most 
people,  Dick  Hand  was  not  ashamed  to  show  feeling, 
though  he  hesitated,  embarrassed,  before  a  revelation 
of  the  depth  of  it.  And  this  went  deep.  He  lifted  his 


MERMAID  255 

head  abruptly  and  his  glance  pierced  the  blue  surface 
of  the  woman's  eyes  and  sank  silently  to  unfathomable 
soundings. 

In  those  strange  regions  they  met.  It  was  like  the 
embodiment  of  a  fancy  as  old  as  Kingsley's  "Water- 
Babies."  But  it  was  not  a  meeting  of  sprites,  not  a 
meeting  in  play.  She  was  Mermaid;  he  was  Merman. 
She  was  the  incarnation  of  youth  for  him;  he  was  the 
incarnation  of  dreams  for  her.  Each  saw  in  the  other 
something  lost  or  denied. 

"You  are  what  I  would  most  wish  to  be,  were  I  not 
Mary  Vanton,"  she  was  saying,  evenly,  and  he  found  it 
hard  to  believe  that  she  was  uttering  the  words,  so 
magically  did  they  echo  his  silent  thought.  "  Remember 
that  I,  too,  was  a  girl.  I  also  studied — chemistry. 
Call  it  alchemy — wonderworking — the  miracle  of  facts 
invested  with  the  romance  of  their  exploration  and  dis- 
covery. In  my  simplicity  and  eagerness  I  dreamed 
for  myself  a  career.  .  .  .  You  have  had  the 
career.  ...  In  your  simplicity  and  hopefulness 
you  dreamed  for  yourself  the  perpetuation  of  youth  in 
an  ideal  love  and  the  renewal  of  youth  in  your  chil- 
dren. .  .  .  That — has  been  mine.  I  have  had  the 
greater  satisfaction.  I  have  it  now. 

"But  mine  is  the  basic  satisfaction.  I  have  had,  I 
still  have,  an  ideal  love.  I  have  my  children.  The 
rest  I  can  forego.  The  other  dream  I  can  have  as  a 
vicarious  satisfaction  in  the  splendid  work  you  have 


256  MERMAID 

done  and  are  doing.  You,  on  the  other  hand,  have  not 
had  the  underlying  satisfaction  that  has  been  mine. 
.  .  .  These  things  cannot  be  undone.  We  have 
to  deal  with  them  as  they  are.  We  have  to  make  the 
most  of  them,  exploit  them  bravely,  gallantly.  It  is 
the  feat  of  living  which,  I  suppose,  everyone  is  called 
upon  to  perform." 

"You  are  right,"  he  said,  affirmatively.  "But  you 
are  also  partly  wrong.  I  was  your  lover  and  am  now 
your  friend;  I  love  your  children,  and  it  is  at  least  per- 
mitted me  to  love  them  as  if  they  were  my  own." 

"They  are  that  part  of  me  which  it  is  still  permitted 
you  to  love,"  she  said,  gravely.  "And  as  a  friend,  as  an 
old  friend,  as  my  one-time  lover,  as  the  realizer  of  that 
part  of  my  dream  which  I  in  my  own  person  never  can 
realize — as  such  you  are  near  and  dear  to  me.  Between 
us  there  exists  a  strong  tie.  I  do  not  think  that  any- 
thing will  ever  break  it." 

"It  is  unbreakable  and  it  exists.  It  can  be  no 
different,  it  need  be  no  stronger,"  he  avowed. 

A  few  moments  later  she  heard  him  on  the  veranda, 
talking  with  her  oldest  boy. 

"I'll  swim  you  a  hundred  yards  in  the  bay  and  beat 
you,"  he  was  saying  to  John  in  a  youthfully  challenging 
voice. 

"You're  on,"  replied  the  fourteen-year-old,  concisely. 
"Say,  you  can't  do  it,  though!" 

They  moved  away  and  their  voices  dwindled.     Mary 


MERMAID  257 

Vanton  listened  to  the  attenuating  sound  of  their 
movements  and  chatter.  A  great  thankfulness  filled 
her  heart,  and  when  she  rose  from  the  chair  where  she 
had  been  sitting,  motionless,  tears  were  in  her  eyes. 

XII 

But  Tom  Lupton  was  not  articulate.  He  walked 
beside  Mary  Vanton,  sat  at  her  table,  declined  cigars 
and  apologetically  lit  his  pipe  instead,  looked  at  his 
hostess  and  old  friend  with  something  kindling  in  his 
countenance,  talked — the  casual  talk  that  there  was  to 
exchange  in  cheerful  barter — and  said  nothing  of  what 
was  in  his  heart.  Yet  Mary  Vanton  knew  what  was 
there. 

The  same  thing  was  there  that  had  been  in  the  heart 
of  the  youngster,  the  boy,  Tommy  Lupton,  she  had 
known.  It  would  be  there  always.  But  his  attitude 
was  different  from  Richard  Hand's.  In  spite  of  an 
existence  that  gave  him  plenty  of  opportunity  for  think- 
ing things  out  there  were  things  that  Tommy  never 
would  think  out.  He  would  only  dumbly  feel. 

If  he  couldn't  think  them  out  he  certainly  couldn't 
utter  them  in  words.  Without  doubt  he  thought  it 
wrong  to  feel  them.  All  his  life  he  had  loved  Mary 
Vanton  just  as,  in  a  boyish  way,  he  had  loved  the  girl 
Mermaid.  But  he  did  not  realize  it;  would  have 
thought  it  a  wicked  thing  in  him  if  he  had  realized  it. 

His  attitude  was  simple.     Mary  developed  it  one  day 


258  MERMAID 

and  defined  it  for  her  own  satisfaction — developed  and 
defined  it  for  his  unconscious  satisfaction,  too.  He 
would  feel  the  better  for  it,  she  knew,  though  he  would 
not  know  why. 

"What,"  she  asked  him  as  they  were  walking  along 
the  ocean  shore  together,  "are  you  going  to  do — eventu- 
ally?" 

Tom  Lupton  considered. 

"Oh,  I  suppose  I  shall  just  stick  along  here,"  he  con- 
fessed. "  It  isn't  much.  It's  all  I  have  to  look  forward 
to. 

"Other  men,"  he  said,  a  moment  later,  "haven't  any 
special  thing  to  look  forward  to,  either.  Take  the 
fellows  at  the  station.  All  the  older  ones  are  married 
and  expect  to  retire  on  their  pensions  some  day  and 
take  it  easy.  They Ve  children.  They  can  watch  them 
grow  up.  I'm  not  married.  I'll  probably  stay  in  the 
harness  as  long  as  I'm  able  and  then  I'll  have  to  quit,  I 
suppose,  whether  I  want  to  or  not.  I  can  watch  other 
people's  children  growing  up.  I  can  occupy  myself 
some  way.  That's  what  it  comes  to  mostly — occupying 
yourself  some  way — doesn't  it?" 

"Why  don't  you  marry?"  If  it  was  a  cruelty  he  was 
mercifully  unconscious  of  it. 

He  looked  straight  at  her  and  replied:  "I've  never 
thought  of  marrying." 

It  was  literal  truth.  Mary  Vanton  understood  that 
instantly.  He  had,  from  boyhood,  always  put  her  clean 


MERMAID  259 

above  him.  He  had  fought  for  her,  a  boyish  battle,  and 
been  defeated;  and  after  that,  while  he  continued  to 
feel  the  same  way  about  her,  while  he  continued  to  love 
her,  the  fancy  of  adolescence  maturing  into  the  devo- 
tion of  the  grown  man,  he  had  never  figured  himself  in 
the  running.  She  had  stepped  outside  of  the  circle  of 
his  life,  and  when  she  reentered  it,  it  was  as  the  wife 
of  another  man — which  was  the  whole  story. 

"Of  course,"  he  was  saying,  with  his  admirable  sim- 
plicity and  acceptance  of  the  facts — so  far  as  he  recog- 
nized them.  "Of  course  I  wish  I  might  have  married. 
It  would  have  been  pleasanter.  I  should  either  have 
been  much  happier  or  very  much  unhappier." 

Again  he  looked  at  her  with  his  smile  in  which  the 
boy  he  had  been  was  so  clearly  visible.  When  he 
smiled  the  little  wrinkles  at  the  corners  of  his  eyes,  got 
from  much  seaward  gazing,  made  him  look  younger. 

"I'm  worried  about  you,"  he  told  her,  with  the  direct- 
ness that  was  to  be  expected  of  him.  "Do  you  think 
you  ought  to  stay  here  this  winter?" 

"I  think  I  must,"  she  answered.  "It's  not  from  any 
idea  of  shunning  people  but  because  I  have  got  to  arrive 
at  some  way  of  living.  If  Guy  were  dead  I  could  make 
an  unalterable  decision.  With  Guy  alive  I  have  to 
consider  the  possibility  of  his  return,  the  probability  of 
it." 

"You  feel  sure  he  will  return?" 

"Quite  sure.    If  I  thought  he  were  never  to  return  I 


260  MERMAID 

would  reconcile  myself  to  it  as  best  I  could,  make  my 
plans,  and  go  ahead.  Even  then  I  should  have  to  pro- 
vide for  the  fact  that  he  might  come  back.  But  be- 
lieving as  I  do  that  he  is  sure  to  come  back,  and  feeling 
as  I  do  utterly  uncertain  how  long  he  will  be  away,  I  am 
very  badly  perplexed." 

"Why  do  anything?"  he  asked,  wonderingly.  "It 
is  not  as  if  you  had  to  earn  your  bread." 

"It  is  more  difficult,"  she  explained.  "When  you 
have  to  earn  your  bread,  and  your  children's  bread,  you 
are  spared  the  necessity  of  any  decision.  You  just  set 
about  earning  it  the  best  way  you  can,  and  puzzle  over 
nothing  except  how  more  advantageously  to  earn  it. 
Or  how  to  earn  more. 

"Those  are  not  my  problems  and  I  have  everything 
to  be  thankful  for,  no  doubt,  that  they  aren't.  And 
yet — I  wonder  if  it  isn't  easier  to  deal  with  difficulties 
under  the  pressure  of  necessity?  Do  you  realize  that 
I  have  no  necessity,  immediate  or  remote,  pressing  upon 
me  to  compel  me  to  address  myself  to  my  problem, 
to  solve  it?" 

This  was  not  so  subtle  but  that  Tom  Lupton  saw 
it  and  said  so. 

"You'd  be  better  off,  in  a  way,  if  you  had  to  make 
up  your  mind  to  something,"  he  agreed.  "But  what 
I  can't  see  is  what  you  need  to  make  up  your  mind  to." 

Mary  Vanton  permitted  herself  a  slight  gesture  of 
spreading  hands. 


MERMAID  261 

"If  Guy  were  to  be  gone  but  a  short  time,  if  I  knew 
that,  could  feel  certain  of  it,  I  would  simply  stay  here 
and  keep  things  as  they  are,"  she  declared.  "The 
children  come  first  in  any  calculation  I  may  make. 
But  if  I  knew  he  were  to  be  gone  for  a  period  of  years  I'd 
do  quite  differently.  I'd  go  into  something,  something 
where  I  could  have  them  with  me  and  where  we'd  all 
be  pretty  constantly  at  work  together.  A  big  farm, 
I  think.  I  don't  know  anything  about  farming,  but 
I  dare  say  I  could  learn  something  about  it,  and  surely 
a  boy  like  John  could  learn  it  from  the  ground  up — or 
perhaps  farming  is  learned  from  the  ground  down," 
she  finished,  smilingly. 

"What  I  am  getting  at  is  this,"  she  went  on.  "I  feel 
the  need  of  productive  labour.  I  am  not  a  theorist 
and  I  have  no  set  of  passionate  political  or  economic 
interests.  But  I  count  it  a  real  misfortune  that  at  this 
crisis  in  my  life  I  do  not  have  to  work  for  my  living 
and  my  children's  living.  It  would  be  better  for  me  if 
•  I  had  to,  and  it  will  be  better  for  them  if  they  are  trained 
to.  Under  the  trust  left  by  Guy  I  can't  impoverish 
myself  and  the  children  if  I  wished  to;  and  certainly 
I  don't  wish  to.  Money  is  an  obligation,  just  as  much 
as  any  other  form  of  property,  and  more  than  most. 
The  obligation  is  to  use  it  as  rightly  as  you  know  how, 
as  productively  as  you  can.  And  that  obligation 
certainly  isn't  discharged  by  filling  our  five  mouths  with 
food  and  putting  clothes  on  the  five  of  us.  It  is  rather 


262  MERMAID 

more  fitly  discharged  by  educating  ourselves,  but  it  can 
only  be  fully  discharged  in  the  end  by  productive  labour. 
That's  the  conscientious  and  dutiful  view  I  take  of  it; 
from  the  purely  selfish  view  there  is  a  good  deal  also 
to  be  said  for  a  big  farm.  We  need  a  new  set  of  interests 
and  healthful  occupation.  It  needn't  be  a  farm,  except 
that  I  can't  think  of  any  other  productive  occupation 
where  the  children  could  healthfully  bear  their  share. 
I  couldn't,"  she  added,  humorously,  "organize  a  factory 
for  the  five  of  us  nor  set  up  a  factory  in  which  we  would 
be  much  use  to  the  world  or  to  ourselves." 

"You  could  carry  out  this  idea,  anyway,"  Tom 
Lupton  meditated  aloud. 

"I  shouldn't  feel  that  I  could  embark  on  anything  of 
the  sort  if  I  felt  certain  of  Guy's  return  within  a 
comparatively  short  time," she  corrected.  "If  he  comes 
back  and  approves  of  my  idea  we  ought  to  execute  it 
together.  That  would  be  as  it  should  be.  If  I  knew  he 
were  not  going  to  return  for  five  or  ten  years  I  would  go 
ahead.  Because  five  or  ten  years  would  change  all  of 
us  so  much  that  an  absolutely  new  adjustment  would 
be  necessary,  anyway.  And  it  would  be  as  easily  made 
in  an  entirely  different  setting  as  in  the  old  one  but  a 
little  altered — more  easily,  I  have  no  doubt.  You 
must  remember,  Tommy,  that  after  years  of  any  ab- 
sence we  always  return  to  make  rediscoveries.  The 
delight  is  in  finding  something  essential  and  unchanged 
in  what  is  superficial  and  very  much  changed.  If  things 


MERMAID  263 

are  outwardly  the  same  we  are  disappointed  and  stop 
there  with  our  disappointment — we  never  do  get  be- 
neath the  surface  again." 

Big  Tom  Lupton,  with  his  simple  way  of  viewing 
everything  about  him,  felt  himself  beyond  his  depth. 

"How  will  you  decide  what  to  do?"  he  asked,  finally. 

"This  winter  will  tell  me,"  Mary  Vanton  asserted. 
'*!  can  do  nothing  about  it  before  spring — I  won't,  at 
least.  If  by  spring  I  have  received  no  word,  if  there 
is  then  no  indication,  nothing  to  guide  me,  I  shall  have 
to  go  ahead  in  my  own  fashion,  take  all  our  lives  in 
my  own  hands,  run  my  own  risks,  make  my  own  mis- 
takes, stand  or  fall  by  what  I  do  and  the  way  I  do  it." 

XIII 

Richard  Hand  had  taken  John  Vanton  to  a  school  in 
New  Jersey  and  had  seen  him  settled  there  before  going 
back  to  New  York  to  prepare  for  a  job  in  Arizona. 
The  Western  enterprise  necessitated  a  long  absence 
from  his  office  in  lower  Broadway,  and  made  it  im- 
probable that  he  would  be  able  to  see  the  Vantons  for 
nearly  a  year.  But  late  in  October  Mary  Vanton  got 
a  letter  from  him  in  which  he  said : 

Things  are  in  such  shape  here  that  I  think  I  shall  be  able  to 
run  away  for  a  couple  of  weeks  at  Christmas  time,  and  if  you 
like  I  will  go  to  the  school  and  pick  up  John,  who  will  be 
coming  home  about  then  for  the  holidays.  I  am  going  to 


264  MERMAID 

invite  myself  to  come  and  stay  with  you  part  of  the  time  I 
am  East — the  first  part  of  it.  After  Christmas  I  shall  have 
to  get  back  to  the  New  York  office  and  clean  up  some  work 
there.  May  I  come  ? 

I  do  not  suppose  you  have  heard  from  Guy,  though  I  sin- 
cerely hope  you  may  have.  I  made  some  inquiries  in  New 
York  and  did  a  little  investigation  by  wire.  Through  a 
friend  in  Washington  I  had  a  search  made  of  records  of  the 
Federal  Employment  Bureaus  in  some  of  the  cities  and  we 
found  that  under  his  own  name  he  had  been  shipped  on  a 
British  vessel,  the  Sea  Wanderer,  of  Liverpool,  sailing  from 
San  Francisco  to  Leith,  Scotland.  That  was  months  ago. 

The  Sea  Wanderer  is  an  old  ship,  a  squarerigger,  and  she 
went  around  Cape  Horn.  Of  course  I  inquired  right  away 
about  her  and  learned  that  she  arrived  safely  at  Leith  after 
a  passage  of  five  months — not  very  swift,  you  see.  I  wasn't 
able  to  find  out  what  became  of  Guy  after  that,  but  he  reached 
Scotland  all  right,  for  there  was  no  trouble  on  the  passage 
and  no  one  was  lost  or  died.  He  was  paid  off  at  the  Board 
of  Trade  office  in  Leith  along  with  the  rest  of  the  crew. 

He  appears  to  have  gone  straight  to  San  Francisco  from 
New  York  and  to  have  shipped  there  on  this  passage  before 
doing  anything  else.  The  time  interval  is  LOO  short  to  have 
allowed  him  to  do  anything  else.  It  was  not  more  than  ten 
days,  apparently,  from  the  time  he  left  New  York  to  the  day 
the  Sea  Wanderer  sailed.  The  people  at  the  Federal  Employ- 
ment Bureau  in  San  Francisco  have  no  recollection  of  him. 
They  don't  recall  anything  he  said  nor  what  he  looked  like. 
He  was  just  one  of  hundreds  of  others  they  deal  with  every 
day.  The  only  actual  identification,  of  course,  lies  in  the 


MERMAID  265 

name,  and  it  is  highly  improbable  that  the  man  who  was  ship- 
ped on  the  Sea  Wanderer  was  some  other  Guy  Vanton.  I 
think  that,  in  a  way,  you  will  be  glad  to  know  that  he  kept 
his  own  name.  It  makes  him  seem  more  like  a  fellow  going 
about  his  proper  business  and  not  trying  to  hide  or  run  away 
from  something. 

He  wasn't  doing  that,  I  feel  sure.  He  was  just  going  after 
something  he  hadn't  got.  Let's  hope  he  gets  it  and  comes 
back  safely  with  it. 

John  is  a  trump.  I  like  that  older  boy  of  yours  and 
suspect  he's  got  great  stuff  in  him — not  that  it  surprises  me. 
As  your  boy  I  should  be  surprised  if  he  hadn't.  I  rather  ex- 
pected, though,  that  he  would  say  something  about  his 
father,  talk  to  me  about  him  in  some  way,  try  to  get  my  opin- 
ion or  something  of  that  sort.  But  he  never  opened  his 
mouth  on  the  subject.  He's  self-contained  without  being 
conceited.  He'll  get  on  well  at  school.  And  whatever  be- 
falls, when  he  gets  a  little  older  you  are  going  to  be  able  to 
have  real  reliance  on  him.  He  writes  me  regularly  and  seems 
to  like  the  place  and  the  fdlows.  I  think  he  inherits  your 
taste  for  chemistry,  and  as  I'm  a  chemical  engineer  he  thinks 
something  of  me  on  that  account.  In  fact,  when  we're 
alone  together  it's  pretty  much  a  case  of  "talk  shop"  for  me 
all  the  time.  Not  that  I  mind  that!  I  never  knew  before 
how  interesting  shop  talk  can  be.  And  if  I  give  him  my  con- 
fidence he  won't  withhold  his.  I  wonder,  anyway,  if  a  cer- 
tain relation  of  friendliness  and  exchanged  confidence  and 
shared  confidence  doesn't  come  rather  easier  between  two 
people  who  aren't  joined  by  ties  of  blood.  It  has  sometimes 
struck  me,  from  what  I've  seen  of  other  men  and  their  sons, 


266  MERMAID 

that  the  very  fact  that  a  man  is  a  boy's  father  somehow 
makes  it  more  difficult  for  him  to  come  into  a  real  confidential 
relation  with  the  boy — at  times,  anyway.  For  even  now- 
adays the  father  is  more  or  less  an  embodiment  of  Authority, 
more  or  less  the  sovereign,  and  intimacy  with  the  sovereign 
is  not  particularly  easy.  Since  I  have  no  real  authority 
over  John  he  is  rather  more  inclined  to  listen  to  my  advice 
and  heed  it.  "  If  I  were  you  "  gets  farther,  lots  of  times,  than 
"You  must."  Well,  I  won't  theorize  about  it;  the  fact  is 
what  matters,  and  the  fact  is  what  gives  me  immense  pleasure 
and  a  sort  of  general  gratitude  that  belongs  to  you  and  John 
and  things  in  general. 

I  wish  there  were  some  way  of  finding  out  what  Guy  did 
after  reaching  Leith,  but  from  the  day  when  he  left  the  Sailors' 
Home  there  no  trace  of  him  appears.  .  I  have  had  the  people 
at  the  Sailors'  Home  questioned  but  he  did  not  talk  about 
his  plans.  They  remember  him  there  rather  distinctly — not 
his  personal  appearance  but  the  fact  that  he  seemed  to  be  a 
man  of  education  and  breeding.  When  he  left  he  took  his 
dunnage  with  him,  which  would  make  it  seem  probable  that 
he  intended  to  go  to  sea  again.  If  so  he  may  be  on  his  way 
home  now.  I  sincerely  hope  so.  I  not  only  hope  he'll  come 
back,  but  I  hope  he'll  come  back  as  speedily  as  possible 
and  in  his  best  estate,  physically  and  mentally  and  spirit- 
ually. 

Tell  me  what  the  girls  would  most  like  for  Christmas 
presents.  And  if  there  is  anything  I  can  get  for  you  on  my 
way  East  let  me  know.  John  and  I  are  planning  to  spend  a 
day  in  New  York  buying  some  gifts.  What  would  you  like? 
I  shall  bring  along  a  toy  wireless  outfit  for  Guy,  Jr. 


MERMAID  267 

Mary  Vanton  read  this  letter  with  attention.  The 
news  it  contained  of  her  husband  stirred  her  pro- 
foundly. At  first  she  wondered  if  the  career  of  Captain 
Vanton  had  had  anything  to  do  with  Guy  Vanton  going 
to  sea;  but  after  some  reflection  she  concluded  it  had 
not.  Guy  had  always  loved  the  sea,  which  was  one  of 
the  reasons  they  had  built  the  beach  house  she  was 
living  in.  The  sea  had  been  a  mutual  bond  between 
them — the  sea  and  the  beach.  Fully  half  of  the  verse 
he  had  from  time  to  time  written  dealt  with  the  ocean, 
and  he  and  she  had  shared  a  certain  interpretation  of  it, 
that  the  sea  was  the  last,  the  irremovable,  the  perpetual 
frontier  on  which  the  race  of  men  could  renew  them- 
selves, renew  their  hardihood,  exhibit  their  courage, 
their  daring,  their  resourcefulness,  their  faith. 

"The  sea,"  Guy  had  once  avowed,  "is  the  only  fron- 
tier that  never  vanishes  and  never  recedes.  Men 
triumph  over  it:  'A  thousand  fleets  roll  over  thee  in 
vain,*  and  the  same  victory  has  to  be  won  anew  each 
time  a  ship  sets  sail.  Steam  and  wireless  and  all  sorts 
of  other  inventions  make  sea  travel  safer  and  easier 
and  swifter  only  in  the  long  run,  and  in  the  case  of  the 
'thousand  fleets' — in  the  case  of  any  single  voyage  or 
any  single  ship  the  actual  risks,  the  possible  hardships, 
the  prerequisite  of  latent  courage  and  absolute  devotion 
on  the  part  of  the  men  who  sail  her,  remain  exactly 
the  same  as  when  the  Phoenicians  went  forth  in  trading 
vessels  and  shuddered  to  go  beyond  the  pillars  of  Her- 


268  MERMAID 

cules,  into  the  dark,  unknown  ocean  that  rolled  away 
to  the  end  of  the  world." 

This,  he  had  argued,  and  Mary  Vanton  agreed  with 
him,  constituted  the  real  immortality  of  the  sea  and  the 
undying  freshness  of  its  adventure.  They  both  felt 
that  there  was  something  in  their  attitude  that  wasn't 
a  part  of  the  ordinary  landsman's  attitude  toward  deep 
water.  Both  had  been  brought  up  in  the  tradition  of 
tall  ships  and  men  who  manned  them.  It  showed  in 
their  outlook  on  life  and  their  tastes  in  reading.  Joseph 
Conrad  was  the  passion  of  both.  Although  they  agreed 
in  thinking  his  greatest  novel  to  be  not  a  sea  tale  at  all — 
"Nostromo" — they  were  of  one  mind  respecting  his 
finest  story.  Together  they  picked  "Youth,"  despite 
the  apparent  preponderance  of  critical  opinion  in  favour 
of  "Heart  of  Darkness."  Perhaps  this  was  because 
in  their  own  lives  they  had  their  heart  of  darkness; 
and  in  Guy's  case  there  must  have  been,  in  respect  of 
"Youth,"  an  inextinguishable  yearning  for  something 
he  could  hardly  be  said  ever  to  have  enjoyed  in  his  own 
strange  and  sad  experience. 

Much  of  all  this  passed  through  Mary  Vanton's 
mind  as  she  stood  on  the  wide  veranda  of  the  beach 
house,  alone.  The  water  was  now  far  too  cold  for 
bathing  and  the  children  had  scattered  to  their  own 
devices.  It  was  a  chilly,  sunshiny,  October  day.  Hull 
down  on  the  restless  horizon  Mary  could  see  a  steamship 
moving  almost  imperceptibly  westward.  By  nightfall 


MERMAID  269 

she  would  be  at  anchor  off  Quarantine.  That  same  night 
or  the  next  morning  her  passengers  would  troop  ashore 
and  add  themselves  to  New  York's  millions.  And  even 
as  she  watched  this  liner  creep  along,  not  more  rapidly 
than  the  minute  hand  of  a  watch,  a  thin  plume  of  smoke 
on  the  eastern  horizon  announced  the  presence  of  an- 
other vessel.  So  they  followed  each  other,  day  in  and 
day  out,  going  west,  going  east,  seldom  missing  from  the 
scene  for  an  hour.  More  rarely  you  saw  a  great  ship 
under  full  sail  come  up  over  the  rim  of  the  world, 
move  past  with  curved  white  beauty,  and  then  sink  over 
the  world's  rim  again. 

XIV 

The  vessel  struck  with  the  greatest  suddenness  and 
with  such  force  that  even  above  the  roar  of  the  wind  and 
the  thunder  of  the  surf  pounding  at  the  foot  of  the  dunes 
the  people  gathered  in  the  Vanton  house  heard  the  dull 
crash  and  jumped  to  their  feet. 

Dick  Hand  exclaimed:  "What's  that!" 

Mary  Vanton  answered  with  the  thought  that  was  in 
all  their  minds :  "A  ship ! " 

Her  mind  ran  instantly  to  the  children,  absurdly,  as 
if  they  were  in  danger. 

Seven-year-old  Mermaid,  the  youngest,  was  in  bed 
and  was  not  likely  to  be  awakened  by  sounds  outside. 
Keturah  and  the  two  boys  were  with  Richard  Hand 
and  herself. 


270  MERMAID 

She  spoke  to  the  three  of  them  with  stern  distinct- 
ness: 

"Children,  whatever  happens,  you  mustn't  leave  the 
house.  You  mustn't  step  off  the  veranda.  The  sea  is 
up  to  the  foot  of  the  dunes." 

She  called  the  servant  and  governess  and  ordered 
them  to  keep  to  the  house  and  to  help  her. 

Richard  Hand  was  already  at  the  telephone  and  call- 
ing the  Lone  Cove  Station. 

"Hello,  Tommy!"  they  heard  him  say.     "A  ship 
has  struck  just  opposite  the  house.     Wait  a  moment." 
He  lifted  his  head  from  the  transmitter  and  asked :  "Can 
you  see  anything?" 

"They're  sending  up  rockets,"  replied  Mary  Vanton. 
She  was  at  the  window,  the  two  boys  crowding  close 
to  her  to  look  out. 

"It's  certain,"  Richard  Hand  said  into  the  tele- 
phone. "We  can  see  her  distress  signals.  .  .  .  All 
right." 

He  hung  up  the  receiver  with  a  crash  and  went  to  the 
window  to  see  for  himself. 

The  utter  darkness  of  the  angry  night  was  broken, 
at  a  distance  of  perhaps  400  yards  from  where  these 
onlookers  were  clustered,  by  a  stream  of  rockets,  which 
lit  the  blackness  faintly  for  an  instant  and  then  expired, 
making  the  night  seem  darker  than  before.  The  illu- 
mination was  not  sufficient  to  disclose  much  of  the 
vessel  but  she  seemed  to  be  a  schooner  or  ship  with  three 


MERMAID  271 

masts.  Not  a  large  craft;  something  of  about  2,500 
tons  and  something  more  than  200  feet  long,  Richard 
Hand  surmised. 

There  was  no  sail  on  her  that  they  could  see.  What 
little  she  had  been  carrying  must  have  been  blown 
from  the  bolt-ropes  before  she  struck,  and  this,  indeed, 
had  probably  caused  the  disaster  to  her,  forcing  her  on 
a  lee  shore.  The  gale  was  from  the  southwest.  It  had 
been  blowing  all  day,  with  hail 'and  snow  flurries,  and 
it  was  bitterly  cold. 

Mary  Vanton  left  the  window  and  taking  the  servant 
went  into  the  kitchen.  She  dragged  out  a  washboiler, 
took  from  a  cupboard  a  fresh  can  of  coffee,  emptied  the 
coffee  in  the  washboiler,  but  not  without  measuring  and 
estimating,  put  the  boiler  on  the  stove  and  began  pour- 
ing in  water. 

She  ransacked  the  pantry  and  sent  her  older  boy  to 
the  cellar.  From  that  region  John  emerged  bringing  a 
side  of  bacon. 

"Bread!"  exclaimed  Mary,  and  for  a  moment  she 
stopped  in  complete  perplexity.  Then  a  recollection 
relieved  her. 

"John,"  she  told  the  boy,  "go  down  cellar  again  and 
bring  up  all  the  hardtack  there  is  there.  Bring  it  up 
a  little  at  a  time.  Don't  try  to  bring  it  all  at  once. 
There's  plenty  of  that,  anyway." 

Her  attention  was  caught  by  certain  preparations 
that  Dick  Hand  was  making. 


272  MERMAID 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"I'm  going  to  join  the  United  States  Coast  Guard  on 
a  temporary  assignment  to  active  duty/'  he  responded, 
grinning  as  he  struggled  to  get  into  a  pair  of  hipboots 
belonging  to  her  husband.  Mary's  face  showed  a 
moment's  dismay  but  cleared  instantly. 

"Tommy  will  appreciate  it." 

"He'd  better,"  Dick  asserted.  "Pretty  way  to 
celebrate  the  holiday  season,  this!"  But  he  changed 
his  tone  a  second  later.  "I  ought  to  be  kicked  for 
jesting  about  it,"  he  said.  "Think  of  the  poor  devils 
on  that  boat!" 

He  had  got  into  the  boots  and  was  wrapping  an  oil- 
skin coat  about  him. 

John  and  Guy,  holding  the  lookout  at  the  window, 
shouted:  "The  man  on  patrol  is  out  here  sending  up 
answering  rockets." 

Keturah,  dissatisfied,  came  to  her  mother's  side  in  the 
kitchen. 

"Can't  I  help  here?"  she  asked. 

"Break  out  some  of  the  ship's  biscuit,"  replied  her 
mother,  perhaps  unconsciously  falling  into  sea  speech. 
Keturah  began  opening  a  box  of  the  hardtack. 

Having  got  under  way  the  work  of  preparing  food  and 
'a  hot  drink  for  those  who  would  soon  be  needing  both, 
Mary  Vanton  allowed  herself  a  moment  at  the  window 
with  the  boys. 

Above  the  steady  diapason  of  wind  and  ocean  came 


MERMAID  273 

sounds  of  men  shouting  faintly.  This  was  the  crew  of 
the  Lone  Cove  Station,  dragging  apparatus  to  the  dunes 
close  by  the  Vanton  house.  A  moment  later  Keeper 
Tom  Lupton  came  in,  banging  the  door;  that  being, 
indeed,  the  only  way  to  close  it  against  the  force  of  the 
gale. 

Mary  Vanton  hastened  toward  him. 

"We  shall  go  around  the  house,"  he  said,  without 
wasting  time  in  greeting  her.  "We  can  work  better  in 
the  lee  of  the  house.  It  will  be  a  wonderful  protection 
to  us  and  if  the  line  falls  short  it  will  be  less  likely  to  be 
fouled." 

"The  whole  house  is  yours,"  Mary  Vanton  told  him, 
quietly.  "Use  it.  Come  and  go  as  you  like.  I  am 
making  gallons  of  hot  coffee;  there  will  be  bacon  and 
bread  or  hardtack." 

He  thanked  her  and  praised  her  with  a  single  glance. 
"I  must  be  getting  outside,"  he  said,  and  left. 

The  boys  had  deserted  the  south  window  for  one 
looking  east  where  they  could  see  the  life  savers  bring- 
ing up  their  apparatus  on  the  crest  of  a  dune  close  by 
the  house.  Their  mother  spoke  to  them: 

"John  and  Guy,  bring  in  wood  and  get  some  dry 
wood  up  from  the  cellar  and  start  fires  in  the  fire- 
places." 

They  obeyed  willingly  enough.  Mary  went  into  the 
kitchen  and  sped  the  servant  and  her  daughter  in  the 
task  of  victualling. 


274  MERMAID 

XV 

It  is  bad  enough  to  move  Coast  Guard  apparatus 
along  the  level  ocean  shore,  dragging  it  through  the 
sand,  but  to  move  it  back  from  the  ocean,  up  and  down 
over  the  uneven  line  of  the  sand  dunes,  is  more  difficult 
still.  When  the  ocean  is  up  to  the  foot  of  the  dunes 
and  is  biting  angrily  at  their  bases  this  difficult  portage 
has  to  be  made. 

The  Vanton  house  was  not  more  than  a  half  mile  east 
of  the  Lone  Cove  Station,  so  the  Coast  Guardsmen's 
task  was  not  as  bad  as  it  might  have  been  in  this  respect. 
Sometimes  it  is  necessary  to  drag  life  boats  mounted  on 
trucks,  and  all  the  other  paraphernalia,  for  several  miles. 

To  be  able  to  work  with  such  a  base  as  this  big  house 
right  at  hand  was  an  immense  advantage,  and  to  be 
able  to  work  in  the  lee  of  it,  more  or  less  huddled  under 
its  eastern  wall,  seemed  a  piece  of  fortune  hardly  less 
great. 

Everything  else  was  about  the  worst  it  could  have 
been  in  the  circumstances.  The  darkness  was  absolute. 
The  gale  was  of  hurricane  force,  blowing  at  more  than 
60  miles  an  hour.  It  was  early  in  the  evening,  not  yet 
ten  o'clock,  and  there  was  all  the  night  to  fight  through. 
The  barometer,  as  Keeper  Tom  Lupton  well  knew,  was 
still  falling,  and  the  height  of  the  storm  had  probably 
not  been  reached  and  would  not  be  reached  until 
toward  morning.  The  chance  of  the  sky  lightening, 


MERMAID  275 

until  daybreak  compelled  a  recession  of  the  darkness, 
was  almost  nil.  The  chance  of  the  wind  abating  was 
no  better.  And  even  should  the  night  become  a  little 
lighter  and  the  wind  lessen,  the  tremendous  seas  which 
were  assaulting  the  sand  dunes  and  breaking  over  the 
stranded  ship  would  not  go  down.  It  takes  hours  after 
a  heavy  gale  for  the  sea  it  has  kicked  up  to  lessen  per- 
ceptibly. 

The  wind,  against  which  a  man  could  sometimes 
hardly  stand  or  keep  upon  his  feet,  was  not  the  worst 
thing  for  those  who  had  to  make  the  fight  to  save  life 
from  the  shore.  It  was  hailing  intermittently  and  the 
ice  particles  were  fairly  driven  into  the  skin  of  men's 
faces  like  a  peppering  of  fine  shot.  There  was  little 
snow  on  the  ground,  which  was  a  thing  to  be  thankful 
for.  More,  however,  would  come  later  when  the  wind 
began  to  abate. 

Keeper  Tom  marshalled  his  men  and  his  machinery 
as  close  as  possible  to  the  Vanton  house.  Within  forty 
minutes  from  the  time  he  himself  finished  speaking  with 
Richard  Hand,  his  men  and  his  apparatus  were  posted 
and  he  was  ready  to  begin  operations.  In  the  mean- 
time, Dick  Hand  had  bumped  against  him  in  the  black- 
ness and  shouted  indistinctly: 

"Tommy!  .  .  .  Dick!  Anything  you  want 
.  .  .  help  you  .  .  ." 

"Thanks!"  the  keeper  had  bawled  back  with  his 
hands  on  his  old  friend's  shoulders. 


276  MERMAID 

The  little  cannon  began  booming  and  a  thin  line 
began  whipping  seaward. 

Nothing  was  visible.  What  those  ashore  would 
have  seen,  if  there  had  been  light,  was  a  three-masted 
ship  which  had  struck  the  outer  bar  and  had  been  driven 
past  that  until  she  lay  on  the  inner  bar,  so  far  inshore 
that  it  might  have  been  possible  to  wade  to  her  at  low 
tide  in  peaceful  weather.  The  stress  of  her  blow  on 
the  outer  bar  and  the  pounding  to  which  she  had  been 
subjected  in  being  driven  past  it,  as  well  as  the  con- 
tinuous assault  she  was  now  under,  had  battered  her 
very  badly.  She  had  not  opened  up  at  her  seams  but 
would,  and  at  almost  any  instant.  Her  foremast  had 
been  carried  away  completely — snapped  off  a  few  feet 
above  her  deck.  Some  of  her  yards — the  spars  carry- 
ing her  sails — were  gone;  two  of  these  dangled  loosely, 
menacing  the  lives  of  any  one  on  her  decks.  But  there 
was  no  one  on  her  decks.  All  hands  had,  of  necessity, 
taken  to  the  rigging. 

They  could  just  be  glimpsed  by  the  flare  of  her 
rocketing  distress  signals — little  dark  figures  in  the 
maintop,  in  the  topgallant  crosstrees,  in  the  mizzen 
shrouds.  They  appeared  not  at  all  human.  They 
seemed  to  be  nothing  but  slight  lumps  or  warts  on  the 
fine  tracery  of  the  rigging,  the  slender  filaments  of  masts 
and  yards  and  stays,  wood,  wire  and  rope,  limned 
against  the  formidable  blackness  in  which  sky  and  sea 
met  each  other  and  were  indistinguishable. 


MERMAID  277 

No  boat,  of  course,  could  live  for  a  moment  in  the 
sea  that  was  raging.  The  only  chance  was  in  getting 
a  line  to  the  vessel.  And  in  doing  that  every  instant 
counted. 

The  first  shots  with  the  line  were  useless,  as  was  to 
have  been  expected.  It  was  necessary  to  determine 
direction  and  drift,  and  to  make  a  heavy  and  exact 
allowance  for  windage.  The  ship  lay  directly  south, 
the  gale  was  from  the  southwest.  The  line  had  to  be 
shot  almost  straight  against  the  wind,  which  then 
carried  it  to  the  south.  But  so  shot,  it  became  evident 
that  it  was  falling  short.  A  heavier  charge  was  used 
and  still  the  line  fell  short. 

"We  can't  stay  here,"  bellowed  Keeper  Tom  who, 
when  he  wanted  to  give  an  order,  was  under  the  practi- 
cal necessity  of  bawling  it  separately  in  each  man's  ear. 
"We'll  have  to  leave  the  lee  of  the  house  and  go  to 
windward,  well  to  windward." 

This  was  that  they  might  not  have  to  shoot  the  line 
squarely  in  the  teeth  of  the  gale  when  the  wind,  getting 
under  it,  lifted  it  high  in  the  air  and  seriously  shortened 
the  horizontal  distance  it  travelled — like  a  "pop"  fly 
in  a  baseball  game  or  a  golf  ball  driven  straight  into 
the  wind. 

Leaving  the  lee  of  the  Vanton  house  was  just  an- 
other hardship  added  to  those  they  were  already  en- 
during. All  the  apparatus  was  moved  and  a  post  was 
taken  on  a  dune  well  to  the  west.  From  this  site  better 


278  MERMAID 

results  were  got  almost  immediately.  The  gale  still 
carried  the  line  to  the  eastward  but  this  could  be  allowed 
for  and  the  lateral  journey  of  the  line  was  not  materially 
lessened.  After  a  few  shots  to  get  the  wind  allowance 
the  line  was  dropped  squarely  over  the  wreck. 

XVI 

Inside  the  house  Mary  Vanton,  having  assured  her- 
self that  there  would  be  plenty  to  eat  and  drink  when 
it  was  wanted,  having  approved  the  work  of  her  sons  in 
building  roaring  wood  fires  in  the  fireplaces,  went  up- 
stairs and  began  to  overhaul  bedding.  In  this  she  had 
the  help  of  the  governess  while  Keturah  and  the  servant 
remained  active  in  the  kitchen.  There  was  a  great  deal 
of  bedding  in  the  house  and  Mary  got  it  all  out.  Some 
of  it  she  carried  down  to  one  of  the  living  rooms,  requisi- 
tioning John  and  Guy  to  struggle  with  the  mattresses. 

Then  she  went  to  her  medicine  closet  and  looked  that 
over.  Most  of  the  rough-and-ready  remedies  were  there 
in  reasonable  quantities.  Alcohol,  peroxide  of  hydro- 
gen, iodine,  camphor,  and  so  on.  There  was  some 
prepared  bandaging  and,  of  course,  linen  could  be  torn 
up  in  strips.  She  bethought  herself  of  stimulants  and 
was  relieved  to  recall  a  half-dozen  bottles  of  brandy  in 
the  cellar. 

Was  there  plenty  of  hot  water? 

What  next  ? 

Something  new  occurred  to  her  always  before  she 


MERMAID  279 

completed  the  task  in  hand.  At  length  she  went 
through  the  house,  upstairs  and  down.  Everything, 
she  decided,  was  as  nearly  ready  for  the  emergency  as 
it  could  be.  The  fires  burned  brightly  in  the  living 
rooms  and  the  smell  of  coffee  filled  the  place.  In  one 
of  the  living  rooms  four  mattresses  were  ranged  on  the 
floor  and  had  been  made  up  with  sheets,  pillows,  and 
coverlets.  In  the  other  the  large  table  had  been  cleared 
of  books  and  papers.  A  cloth  covered  it  and  it  was 
heaped  high  with  piles  of  plates,  with  hardtack,  with 
some  cold  meat,  with  what  bread  there  was,  with  cups. 
In  the  centre  stood  several  pots  of  coffee.  In  the 
kitchen  the  servant  was  frying  bacon,  Keturah  slicing 
it  for  her.  The  governess  had  run  upstairs  to  assure 
herself  that  Mermaid,  the  youngest,  had  not  been 
wakened  by  all  the  bustle,  or  to  quiet  her  if  she  had. 
The  two  boys  were  replenishing  the  fires  and  between 
times  darting  to  the  windows,  now  the  south  and  now 
the  west  windows.  But  they  could  see  little  or  nothing 
from  either. 

Mary  completed  her  inspection  and  stepped  to  the 
south  window.  It  was  at  that  instant  that  the  lifeline 
reached  the  wreck. 

XVII 

The  line  passed  close  to  the  mainmast  and  a  stiffened 
arm  reached  out  and  caught  it,  drew  it  inboard  at  the 
maintop,  some  thirty  feet  or  so  above  the  wave-washed 


280  MERMAID 

deck.  There  followed  an  interval  of  minutes — they 
did  not  seem  like  hours  but  they  seemed  tragically  long 
— in  which  the  two  or  three  men  gathered  in  the  main- 
top, which  is  a  small  semi-circular  platform  with  barely 
standing  room  for  three,  made  various  movements 
making  fast  the  line;  and  having  guarded  against  losing 
it  they  began  slowly  to  pull  its  length  in  toward  them. 

The  light  line  for  firing  carried  to  them  a  stouter 
rope,  bent  to  the  end  of  it,  and  a  block  and  tackle. 
Eventually  the  block  reached  them  and  the  people  on 
shore  prepared  for  the  running  out  of  the  breeches 
buoy. 

And  all  this  dark  and  sightless  while  the  distress  of 
the  motionless  figures  lashed  in  the  mizzen  rigging  was 
something  palpable,  acute,  and  sensed  without  the  need 
of  a  single  gesture,  a  single  sign,  a  moment's  glimpse. 
How  were  these  unfortunates  to  avail  themselves  of 
the  breeches  buoy  even  when  it  reached  the  ship?  To 
get  to  it  they  would  have  to  unlash  themselves,  descend, 
and  cross  the  deck  between  the  mizzenmast  and  the 
mainmast  and  ascend  to  the  maintop.  To  cross  the 
deck  would  be  impossible.  As  well  try  to  walk  fifty 
feet  on  the  surface  of  the  Atlantic. 

It  was  not  certain,  furthermore,  that  those  in  the 
mizzen  retained  any  power  of  physical  movement. 
They  did  not  shift  their  positions.  Although  they  had 
lashed  themselves  in  pairs  close  together  they  did  not 
strike  each  other  about  the  head,  shoulders,  and  body, 


MERMAID  281 

as  they  should  be  doing  if  they  had  any  vigour  left,  in 
the  imperative  effort  to  keep  from  freezing. 

Slowly,  with  a  painful  slowness,  the  line  was  got 
ready  for  the  running  of  the  breeches  buoy.  And  then 
it  was  that  Keeper  Tom  Lupton  manifested  his  inten- 
tion of  being  hauled  out  in  the  buoy  to  the  vessel. 

There  was  emphatic  dissent.  The  men  pleaded  with 
him  in  shouts,  shrieking  arguments  that  the  wind  tore 
from  their  lips  and  the  great  thunder  of  the  ocean 
drowned.  These  were  not  circumstances  under  which 
he  should  feel  impelled  to  go  aboard;  the  risk  of  travel 
either  way  was  too  serious  for  a  single  unnecessary  jour- 
ney in  the  buoy  to  be  undertaken;  the  line  might  not 
have  been  made  fast  properly,  in  which  event  he 
would  be  the  first  man  lost;  in  the  conditions  that  ex- 
isted he  could  do  nothing  when  he  got  aboard,  and 
he  would  become  merely  one  more  man  to  be  hauled 
ashore. 

These  pleas  were  without  avail.  Keeper  Tom  ad- 
mitted that  he  "didn't  know  what  he  could  do  till  he 
got  there.  The  thing,"  he  added,  "is  to  get  there." 

"Dick,"  he  shouted  in  Richard  Hand's  ear,  "in  any 
case,  I  can't  do  much  alone.  I  can't  ask  any  of  my 
men  to  risk  their  lives  by  coming  out  on  the  next  trip 
out  of  the  buoy.  I'm  not  asking  you  to.  But 
men " 

The  racket  of  the  storm  made  the  end  of  the  sentence 
inaudible.  Dick  Hand  did  not  need  it  He  flung  his 


282  MERMAID 

arm  about  Tom  Lupton  and  bellowed:  "I'll  be  there. 
Next  trip  out." 

Keeper  Tom  communicated  the  order  to  his  men.  It 
was  not  until  Tom  Lupton  was  in  the  buoy  and  moving 
over  the  boiling  surf  at  the  foot  of  the  sand  dunes  that 
Richard  Hand  thought,  with  a  shock,  of  Mary  Vanton. 
Three  men  in  the  world  were  charged,  in  varying  de- 
grees, with  some  responsibility  to  stand  by  her  and 
aid  her.  One  had  disappeared  and  the  other  two  were 
about  to  jeopard  their  lives. 

XVIII 

He  felt  he  must  see  Mary  for  a  moment  and  speak 
to  her.  He  left  the  cluster  of  men  on  the  dune  and 
hurried  to  the  house. 

He  found  her  on  the  rug  in  the  east  living  room.  One 
or  two  of  the  crew  were  warming  their  hands  and 
swallowing  hot  coffee  in  the  other  large  room.  The 
men  came  over,  not  more  than  two  at  a  time,  at  inter- 
vals, to  get  thawed  out. 

"Tom,"  he  said,  "has  gone  off  in  the  buoy." 

"I  know,"  she  answered.  "I  saw  someone  being 
hauled  out  and  I  knew  it  must  be  he." 

He  hesitated,  then  told  her. 

"The  worst  of  it  is,  I  must  go  on  the  next  trip.  He 
practically  asked  me  to.  And  I  said  I  would." 

At  that  for  the  first  time  in  all  her  life,  so  far  as 
he  could  remember,  she  seemed  panicky  and  likely, 


MERMAID  283 

for  an  instant,  to  collapse.  He  stepped  hurriedly 
toward  her  but  she  had  got  hold  of  herself  and  made  a 
gesture  to  keep  him  away. 

"No,  no!  I'm  all  right."  But  she  let  John,  who  had 
approached  them,  bring  her  a  chair  and  she  leaned  on 
it.  The  boy  kept  near  them,  regarding  them  silently. 
His  gray  eyes  were  inscrutable  but  the  look  he  gave  his 
mother  was  one  of  sympathy,  and  Dick  Hand  thought 
that  there  was  confidence  in  the  glance  that  was  di- 
rected at  himself.  It  somehow  came  over  Dick  that 
this  boy  was  a  big  factor  in  all  their  lives,  potentially 
at  least.  If  Tommy  and  himself  did  not  come  back 

Mary  Vanton  was  calm  and  self-reliant  again.  She 
motioned  to  Richard  Hand  that  he  had  better  drink 
some  coffee.  He  took  the  hand  she  offered  him,  waved 
to  John,  and  hurried  into  the  other  room,  impatiently 
swallowing  the  coffee  and  going  out  the  door  with  the 
two  other  men. 

XIX 

The  buoy  had  travelled  out  safely  and  the  half-frozen 
workers  ashore  had  seen  the  Keeper  disengage  himself 
and  clamber  into  the  maintop.  They  had  also  seen 
him  help  one  of  the  crew  into  the  buoy  and  had  re- 
ceived the  signal — jerks  on  the  rope — to  haul  away. 

Hauling  away  with  a  will  they  brought  to  the  top  of 
the  dune,  half-drowned  by  the  upleaping  surf  as  he  was 
borne  shoreward,  a  sailor,  one  of  the  forecastle  crowd. 


284  MERMAID 

Two  men  picked  him  up  and  carried  him  to  the 
house. 

As  they  cleared  the  buoy  for  the  trip  out  Dick  Hand 
came  forward  to  take  his  place  in  it.  He  put  himself 
in,  first  one  leg  then  the  other,  and  shouted:  "All  fast!" 

They  began  hauling  him  out. 

Out  he  went,  not  rapidly,  out  over  the  dark  and 
frightful  tangle  of  waters  that  flooded  the  smooth 
beach  below  him.  He  was  facing  shoreward.  The 
moment  his  feet  left  the  edge  of  the  dune  he  was,  to 
all  intents  and  purposes,  in  the  midst  of  an  immense 
void,  a  bottomless  region  of  water  and  blackness  and 
cutting,  stinging  wind  without  landmark  or  landfall, 
terrible,  thunderous,  and  empty  of  anything  but  sound. 
Beneath  him  the  stout  strength  of  the  buoy  bore  him 
up.  That,  at  least,  was  tangible.  It  was  as  if  he  rode 
slowly  through  chaos  on  an  invisible  steed,  winged, 
at  home  in  the  air. 

A  little  way  and  then  a  great  wall  of  water  coming 
unseen  out  of  the  darkness  rose  and  curved  and  fell  upon 
him.  One  instant  he  sensed  its  black,  glittering  height 
at  his  back,  the  next  he  was  in  the  midst  of  it,  as  sub- 
merged as  though  he  had  been  a  thousand  fathoms  be- 
low the  immense  Atlantic;  an  instant  later  he  was  free 
of  the  barrier,  drenched,  drowning,  water  running  off 
him  in  streams — riding  slowly  seaward,  riding  slowly 
on. 

The  line  carrying  the  breeches  buoy  was  as  taut  as  it 


MERMAID  285 

was  possible  to  make  it  but  inevitably  it  sagged  in  the 
middle,  especially  when  the  buoy  was  bearing  a  man's 
weight.  For  a  part  of  his  journey  Dick  was  under 
water  almost  continuously.  He  had  to  hold  his  breath 
and  draw  breath  as  cautiously  as  a  swimmer  in  a  heavy 
sea.  The  impact  of  waves  bruised  and  shook  him,  the 
roar  of  the  water  deafened  him.  He  could  see  neither 
ship  nor  shore.  He  grew  doubtful,  almost,  of  his  own 
existence.  Still  he  rode  on. 

As  he  neared  the  ship  he  was  lifted  above  the  angry 
flood  that  seethed  about  the  vessel.  Now  he  went  for- 
ward more  slowly,  for  he  had  to  be  hauled  not  only  out 
but  upward.  Eventually  he  found  himself  hard  upon 
the  ship's  maintop,  her  torn  rigging,  singing  deep  bass 
notes  in  the  wind,  all  about  him.  A  little  farther,  a  little 
farther,  yet  a  little  more  and  he  was  able  to  reach  out  his 
hand  and  clutch  a  ratline.  A  moment  more  and  he  was 
struggling  to  get  his  feet  on  the  tiny  platform  of  the  top, 
Tom's  hand  was  under  his  shoulders,  and  Tom's  voice 
was  in  his  ear. 

"Fine  work!  Good  boy!  You're  just  .  .  ." 
That  much  Tom's  voice  managed  to  get  to  him  above 
the  awful  noise. 

XX 

Mary  did  not  see  Richard  Hand's  trip  out  in  the  buoy. 
She  was  busy  ministering  to  the  first  man  ashore,  the 
sailor  whom  two  of  the  Lone  Cove  crew  had  brought  to 


286  MERMAID 

the  house.  One  of  the  men  hurried  back  to  help  haul 
the  buoy;  the  other  stayed  and,  aided  by  John,  stripped 
the  sailor  of  his  wet  clothing  and  got  him  into  night 
clothes  and  a  bathrobe.  He  was  unconscious. 

Mary,  arriving  with  a  bottle  of  brandy,  poured  out  a 
drink  and  they  managed  to  get  it  down  his  throat  as  he 
revived. 

He  sat  up  and  looked  about  him  stupidly  and  patheti- 
cally. He  was  a  big  fellow  with  blond  hair  and  blue 
eyes,  a  Scandinavian,  apparently.  After  he  had  swal- 
lowed a  little  more  brandy  they  put  him  in  one  of  the 
beds  in  the  living  room  which  Mary  had  converted  for 
hospital  purposes.  He  did  not  appear  to  be  frostbitten 
and,  closing  his  eyes,  he  fell  into  a  slumber  that  was  not 
much  lighter  than  the  unconscious  state  in  which  he  had 
reached  the  land. 

Mary  stood  for  a  moment  regarding  the  first — and  it 
might  be  the  only — life  wrested  from  the  clutch  of  the 
sea.  He  was  handsome  in  a  way  and  evidently  not  very 
old.  A  mere,  overgrown  boy,  she  thought  to  herself,  but 
he  might  not  be  so  young  as  he  looked  with  his  light  hair 
and  fair  skin,  almost  beardless.  He  came  of  a  seafaring 
race,  whether  Norwegian,  Swedish,  or  Dane;  he  would 
not  think  very  deeply  of  his  adventure.  She  wondered 
for  a  moment  what  he  thought  about  the  sea,  how  he 
felt  about  it,  how  he  would  feel  about  it  now;  but  she 
reflected  that  his  escape  would  probably  present  itself 
to  him  as  a  piece  of  luck,  nothing  more,  as  something  all 


MERMAID  287 

in  the  day's — or  the  year's — work — nothing  romantic 
about   it. 

XXI 

Mutely,  working  together  on  the  slight  foothold  that 
the  maintop  afforded  them,  the  few  boards  beneath 
their  feet  shaking  to  the  tremendous  violence  of  waves 
breaking  over  the  decks  below,  Tom  Lupton  and 
Richard  Hand  got  first  one  and  then  the  other  of  the 
two  men  on  the  maintop  with  them  into  the  breeches 
buoy  and  sent  them  ashore.  In  the  rigging  above,  close 
to  the  topgallant  crosstrees,  were  two  other  figures. 
But  even  as  they  worked,  getting  their  second  man  into 
the  buoy,  one  of  these  black  huddles  that  was  a  man 
dropped  past  them  and  struck  the  deck  with  a  noise 
distinct  and  apart  from  the  noise  of  the  general  tumult. 
In  the  spectacle  of  that  hopeless  black  clump  falling 
down  past  them,  in  the  sound  of  that  blow  as  it  struck 
the  deck,  in  the  quickness  with  which  the  shape  was 
swallowed  up  by  the  glassy  black  of  the  ocean,  raging 
with  frothing  crests,  there  was  something  to  make  the 
bravest  soul  momentarily  faint  and  turn  the  body  sick. 

"I'm  going  after  the  other,"  said  Keeper  Tom  by 
gesture.  And  by  gesture  Dick  inquired  if  he  should  go, 
too.  Tom  Lupton  shook  his  head.  "Stay  here,"  he 
ordered,  and  started  up  the  ratlines. 

From  below,  fearful  and  anxious  to  aid  him  but  feel- 
ing the  obligation  to  obey  orders,  Dick  Hand  watched. 


288  MERMAID 

The  keeper  went  up  slowly,  the  wind  flattening  him 
against  the  weather  rigging.  Dick  saw  him  gain  the 
crosstrees  and  moving  toward  the  lashed  man  begin 
work  with  a  sheath  knife.  After  some  moments  the 
keeper  got  the  man  free.  The  fellow  was  so  little  able 
to  help  or  move  about  that  the  keeper  abandoned  an 
evident  intention  to  carry  him  down  the  weather  rigging 
on  his  back.  He  slashed  about  with  his  sheath  knife, 
and  Dick  could  make  out  that  he  had  cut  some  sail  rope. 
This  he  proceeded  to  tie  about  the  man,  fastening  it 
under  his  shoulders  and  knotting  a  bowline.  Very 
slowly,  very  cautiously,  working  on  the  weather  side, 
the  keeper  began  to  lower  the  man  to  the  maintop.  It 
was  a  perilous  enterprise  and  was  only  managed  by  turns 
of  the  rope  around  a  shroud;  and  it  took  minutes.  But 
it  was  accomplished  and  Dick  received  the  man  safely. 

He  contrived  to  get  the  fellow  in  the  buoy  and  away 
while  Tom  was  climbing  carefully  down. 

There  remained  now  the  great  problem  of  the  people 
on  the  mizzenmast.  The  deck  was  impassable.  Not 
only  that,  but  the  ship  was  beginning  to  break  up.  Her 
bow  had  been  bitten  off  raggedly  by  the  sea.  It  was 
impossible  to  tell  where  she  would  split  or  when.  She 
might  break  in  twain  amidships.  In  that  case  the  main- 
mast would  almost  certainly  go  by  the  board,  Dick  and 
Tom  would  both  be  lost,  the  connection  with  the  shore 
would  be  broken,  and  in  all  likelihood  not  another  soul 
would  reach  the  beach  alive. 


MERMAID  289 

They  had  rescued  four.  There  were  three  on  the 
mizzenmast.  A  full  half  of  the  crew  had  certainly  been 
drowned,  some,  perhaps,  going  down  when  the  foremast 
had  broken  off. 

Something  like  a  miracle  happened  as  Dick  Hand  and 
Keeper  Tom  stood  together  again  in  the  maintop,  hav- 
ing sent  four  men  ashore. 

A  wave  of  unusual  height  rose  up,  shone  inkily 
against  the  blackness  of  the  sky,  curled,  and  burst,  bury- 
ing the  poop  deck  completely  and  falling  with  all  its 
might  against  the  base  of  the  mizzenmast.  There  was 
a  noise  of  splitting  wood  and  of  rending  stays  that  rose 
above  the  loud  song  of  the  wind  in  the  rigging,  and  with 
a  tremendous  crash  the  mizzenmast  fell.  By  some 
freak  of  circumstance  it  fell  straight  to  windward,  and 
the  wind  and  some  resisting  fibres  of  wood  at  the  point 
of  fracture  retarded  its  fall.  It  came  down  slowly,  tear- 
ing through  the  outer  main  rigging  to  windward,  the 
mizzen  topmast  shearing  things  down.  For  the  mo- 
ment the  mizzenmast  rested  squarely  on  the  main  upper 
topsail  yard  halfway  out,  then  as  the  ship  rolled  slightly 
it  came  inboard  and  close  to  the  mast.  Dick  and  Tom, 
watching  anxiously  and  in  terror,  waited  to  see  what  it 
would  do.  But  it  had  done  what  it  had  to  do.  There 
it  rested,  close  to  the  mainmast,  supported  by  the  main 
upper  topsail  yard;  there  it  seemed  destined  to  stay  for 
no  one  knew  just  how  long — perhaps  ten  seconds,  per- 
haps ten  minutes,  perhaps  an  hour. 


290  MERMAID 

But  the  inexplicable  chance  which  had  broken  off  the 
mizzenmast  and  laid  it  carelessly,  like  a  match,  diago- 
nally against  the  mainmast  and  close  to  the  maintop  had 
shaken  from  their  lashings  two  of  the  three  human 
figures  that  had  been  visible  on  it  and  had  brought  the 
third,  and  only  remaining  one,  almost  within  arm's 
reach  of  the  two  rescuers. 

There  was  no  trouble  getting  him  free  and  into  the 
maintop  where  the  buoy  was  waiting,  empty,  ready  to 
give  someone  a  ride  to  the  shore. 

He  was  immovable  and  partly  frozen,  lifeless  or 
nearly  so.  One  would  not  have  judged  that  there  could 
be  much  chance  of  saving  him  even  if  he  were  got  ashore; 
but  that  was  not  a  question  to  take  into  consideration. 

The  wind  howled,  the  sea  made  an  indescribable 
noise.  The  two  could  just  manage  to  strap  the  man 
to  the  buoy  and  give  the  signal  to  haul  away. 

XXII 

Ashore,  in  the  house,  Mary  Vanton's  foresight  and 
careful  preparation  were  being  vindicated,  and  the 
facilities  that  she  had  at  her  disposal  were  being  taxed 
to  the  limit. 

Four  men  had  been  brought  ashore  in  the  buoy.  All 
four  of  them  had  to  be  stripped  of  their  clothing  and 
partially  reclothed  in  dry  apparel.  All  four  needed 
brandy,  coffee,  food,  none  of  them  was  in  a  condition 
to  receive.  Of  these  and  of  the  Coast  Guardsmen 


MERMAID  291 

some  were  frostbitten  and  had  to  be  rubbed  with  snow, 
others  had  cuts  and  bruises  that  required  attention. 
Two  were  delirious,  and  for  these  she  found  some  seda- 
tive; no  one,  herself  included,  ever  could  remember 
afterward  what  it  was.  One  long  living  room  did 
really  resemble  a  hospital  ward.  The  other  living  room 
resembled  a  free-lunch  counter  in  unusual  disarray. 
Food  was  beginning  to  play  out,  but  of  hot  coffee  there 
remained  a  plenty  for  all. 

Keturah  and  the  servant  tended  to  the  food  and 
drink,  except  that  Mary  herself  kept  charge  of  the 
brandy.  The  governess  was  busy  with  bandages  and 
liniments;  John  stood  watch  over  the  patients  and 
ministered  to  them  as  best  he  could,  helping  his  mother. 
Young  Guy,  exhausted  from  the  excitement,  had  been 
carried  at  last,  half  asleep,  to  his  bed  and  simply  dropped 
upon  it  with  his  clothes  on.  Through  all  the  excite- 
ment the  youngest  child,  Mermaid,  had  slept  without 
waking.  It  was  now  two  o'clock  in  the  morning. 

The  door  opened,  for  the  one  hundred  and  thirty-first 
time,  perhaps,  that  night,  and  two  Coast  Guardsmen 
stumbled  in  carrying  the  lifeless  body  of  Guy  Vanton. 
Mary  Vanton  looked  upon  it  without  a  tremor,  kept 
control  of  herself  absolutely  until  it  was  certain  that  he 
was  dead.  Then  she  had  him  carried  into  her  room  up- 
stairs and  herself  covered  his  face.  She  came  out 
quietly  and  turned  the  key  in  the  door,  slipped  it  into 
her  pocket,  and  started  downstairs. 


292  MERMAID 

Something  in  her  expression  sent  terror  striking 
right  through  the  heart  of  her  first-born.  John  was 
beside  her,  had  kept  beside  her  from  the  moment  when 
his  father's  body  was  brought  in.  His  arm  went  about 
her. 

"Mother!" 

She  stopped  uncertainly  on  the  staircase  and  looked 
at  him.  Her  lips  moved  a  little  but  she  did  not  say 
anything.  Her  foot  slipped  on  the  step,  but  she  caught 
herself  by  the  handrail  and  then  stood  there  in  absolute 
quiet.  The  boy  looked  at  her  steadily.  Their  eyes 
met.  She  reached  out  her  hand,  with  a  weary  effort, 
and  drew  him  close  to  her. 

XXIII 

Dick  Hand  did  his  best  to  compel  Tom  Lupton  to  get 
in  the  buoy,  but  could  not.  Tom,  who  had  muscles  of 
iron,  held  back  and  at  the  same  time  gripped  Dick  with 
a  grip  that  meant  business  and  thrust  him  forward, 
yelling  against  the  side  of  his  face:  "Skipper  last!  I'm 
skipper  here  ...  all  there  is.  ...  Get  in. 
Wonderful  work  .  .  .  thanks.  .  .  ." 

So  Dick  got  in  and  was  hauled  back  to  land.  He 
made  all  haste  to  the  house  and  got  there  to  find  Mary 
Vanton  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase,  her  boy  beside  her. 

At  the  sight  of  him  she  lifted  her  eyes,  and  they 
showed  some  of  theii  usual  brilliance  in  the  joy  at  seeing 
him  standing  safely  before  her.  She  made  a  gesture  up 


MERMAID  293 

the  stairs,  took  the  key  of  her  room  from  her  pocket,  and 
handed  it  to  him. 

Dick  went  up,  not  knowing  what  he  should  find.  He 
took  a  long  look  at  the  face  of  what  had  been  Guy  Van- 
ton,  left  the  room,  quietly  relocking  the  door,  and  came 
downstairs.  Without  pausing  for  warmth  or  coffee  he 
hurried  out  into  the  storm.  He  must  be  on  hand  when 
Tommy  landed. 

He  gained  the  top  of  the  dune  and  looked  seaward. 
It  was  still  two  hours  or  more  to  faintest  daybreak. 
Out  of  the  blackness  beyond  the  signal  to  haul  away 
had  been  received.  The  men  began  hauling. 

Just  what  happened  is  a  matter  of  conjecture. 
Whether  the  whole  ship  dissolved  in  pieces  all  at  once 
or  whether  the  mainmast,  weighted  by  the  fallen  mizzen 
carried  away  and  fell,  it  can  never  matter.  Of  a  sudden 
the  line  bearing  the  buoy  collapsed  into  the  water. 
With  shrieks,  yells,  prayers,  and  frantic  effort  the  men 
of  the  crew,  Dick  helping  them,  hauled  away  as  for 
their  lives — it  was,  most  certainly,  for  one  of  their  lives, 
the  best,  the  worthiest.  But  the  falling  line  had  be- 
come entangled  in  floating  wreckage;  there  was  no  light 
to  see  what  had  taken  place;  after  a  succession  of  mighty 
efforts  the  line  snapped  and  they  hauled  inshore  nothing 
but  a  frayed  end  of  rope.  Tommy  Lupton,  who  had 
been  keeper  of  the  Lone  Cove  Coast  Guard  Station, 
who  had  risked  his  life  to  save  a  few  poor  sailors, 
Tommy,  forever  a  boy,  forever  dreaming  of  doing  some 


294  MERMAID 

act  of  bravery,  simple,  devoted,  courageous  Tommy,  had 
fulfilled  his  hope  and  gained  his  desire. 

There  is  something  priceless  in  the  world.  He 
possessed  it. 

XXIV 

There  was  no  more  to  do  that  night,  although  some 
of  the  crew  remained  always  on  the  dune  until  day, 
dawning,  showed  no  trace  of  a  vessel,  but  only  traces 
of  where  a  vessel  had  been,  pieces  of  wreckage  floating 
about.  The  wind  had  gone  down;  the  sea  was  still 
high  but  would  soon  begin  to  lessen  in  violence.  Al- 
ready snow  was  commencing  to  fall.  It  fell  all  day, 
mantling  the  dunes,  covering  all  the  external  marks  of 
the  night's  horrors,  a  great  winding  sheet  laid  upon 
the  trampled  ground.  Only  where  it  struck  the  black 
and  restless  sea  did  the  white  blanket  fail  to  disguise 
what  had  taken  place — that  which  would  take  place 
again  and  again,  from  generation  to  generation,  as 
long  as  the  sea  rolled  and  men  sailed. 

But  even  the  snow  did  not  go  on  falling,  stopping  at 
dusk,  and  the  next  day  it  was  fair.  The  sun  shone  and 
the  air  was  warm — the  weather  might  have  been  that 
of  late  spring.  And  on  the  day  following  it  was  equally 
warm  and  pleasant;  and  this  was  Christmas. 

Richard  Hand  remained  with  the  Vantons  for  two 
weeks  after  Christmas.  At  length  Mary  Vanton  de- 
cided to  close  the  beach  house  and  spend  the  rest  of 


MERMAID  295 

the  winter  in  Blue  Port.  Richard  Hand  saw  her  settled 
there  and  then,  with  her  reluctant  assent,  took  John 
back  to  school. 

He  had  postponed  his  own  work,  let  it  drop,  let  it 
wait,  let  it  go!  Work  could  not  matter  just  then. 

But  after  he  had  left  John  at  school  he  returned  to 
New  York  and  pitched  in  as  hard  as  he  could.  It  was 
some  time  before  he  could  get  away  to  run  down  to 
Blue  Port,  but  at  last  he  managed  it. 

Mary  Vanton  met  him  at  the  little  station,  smiling. 
All  the  way  to  the  house  he  was  conscious  of  nothing 
but  her  presence  beside  him.  When  they  stood  to- 
gether in  the  house,  alone,  facing  each  other,  something 
dynamic  swept  over  him.  He  could  hardly  see,  and 
tears  sprang  to  his  eyes.  He  felt  himself  suffocating, 
drowning  in  a  sea  of  feeling.  The  Mermaid  of  immortal 
youth  who  lived  on  in  Mary  Vanton  was  folded  in  his 
eager  arms. 

THE  END 


THE  COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS 
GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y. 


JJJSSSS& 


154  ; 


